


Portamento

by Kasuchi



Category: How I Met Your Mother
Genre: College, F/M, Gen, Past, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-19
Updated: 2009-09-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 18:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/982303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasuchi/pseuds/Kasuchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sing us a song, you're the piano man! Sing us a song tonight. Well we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feeling alright.</i> Barney, a piano, and the course of a life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This was started well before the S4 finale. This actively disregards what happened there, sweet as it was. Especially the violinist thing.

**dolce**

Barney's first memory, he tells other women, is of his mother and him baking cookies in their kitchen in the middle of a New York winter. He tells them about throwing flour at each other, about watching the cookies impatiently as they turned brown and grew. He describes in perhaps sadistic detail the way the cookies were perfect and melted in his mouth, and how they were absolutely delicious warm but even _better_ cold.

When Shannon asked, he said it was of lying on a blanket and watching clouds roll by with James when he was three. The clouds, he told her, looked like a parade of ducklings following their mother. Shannon had then rolled onto him and kissed him, hair tickling his neck. When he asked why she had done that, she said he had looked so sad when he had told that story that she had to.

Only about 5% of both stories (sum total, really) is true.

Barney's first memory is neither baking cookies nor clouds. Those were stories he made up after the truth had sent him to the school counselor for a semester's worth of weekly sessions.

Barney remembered walking into his house, barely waving to the neighbor who drove him and a classmate home. Kicking the door closed behind him, he sulked into the kitchen and began doing his homework. When James returned later, he didn't even look up from the coloring book, focusing on getting the armor on Optimus Prime just right.

After dinner, James washed dishes and Barney quietly continued coloring at the dining table.

"Something bothering you, Barney?"

"No," he replied, though his crayon stopped moving.

"Come on, you haven't said much of anything all night. And you didn't even try to guess the prices on TPIR."

Barney set down his crayon and half turned around to look at the back of his brother's head. "Why do we look so different?"

Later, James would tell him that it was a good thing the sink had been full of water because he had dropped the dish he had held in slick, wet hands. James said that he remembered dreading the question, and that he was almost glad Barney had finally asked.

James turned away from the sink slowly, wiping his hands carefully dry on a towel. "Because no two people look exactly alike. Just twins."

Barney bit his lip. "Yes, but most people look more alike than we do. Like how Mom and I look more alike than you and Mom do."

James's eyes darkened and his eyebrows knitted together. (Later, James assured him that what Barney had said hadn't angered him so much as what it meant, really.) "What brought this on?"

Barney looked down at his shoes, feet scuffing against the linoleum in the kitchen. "Nothin'."

"Barney." He kept looking at the ground. "Bernard Zacharias Stinson, look at me." Barney, feeling every day of his five and a half years, met his brother's eyes. James, taking a good look at him, softened his tone. "What brought this on?"

His lower lip trembled and then he was crying and James was hugging him, saying soothing things as it tumbled out in a rush - how Aaron Ross had told him that James wasn't his brother, that their mom was a _bad word_ and that Barney wasn't someone they should be hanging out with. (Barney remembered the way James's wet hands had left handprints on the t-shirt, and how the spots had left his skin cold and clammy.)

"But James, we're brothers right? We are! Because we have to be because you and I do stuff that brothers do and we couldn't if we weren't. All the kids tease me at school and I wish we were just _normal_ like all the other kids and--"

James placed his hands on his brother's shoulders, leaning down so that they were eye to eye. Barney's mouth shut with a click, his sniffles loud and his eyes glassy, but he was quiet. "You _are_ my brother. Look," he said, and raised Barney's hand to his own. "We have the same hands." He reached out and tweaked his nose. "We have the same nose."

Barney smiled, watery and unsteady, but the corners of his mouth definitely turned up. James pressed on. "And, we're ticklish in all the same places!" He rushed forward and dug his fingers into Barney's ribs, causing the scrawny blond to kick out and dissolve into hysterical laughter.

When they were sprawled out on the kitchen floor, tired and faces aching from laughing, James sighed deeply and began to speak in quiet tones. "We are brothers, Barney. Most people don't see the resemblances between us because they get caught up in the differences. But it's there, I promise." He paused. "Brothers are more than family, and I will _always_ be your brother. Don't let anyone else tell you differently, okay?"

"Okay," he replied, voice soft.

"And, hey. We _are_ normal. Everyone else is weird."

Barney laughed at that. "Aaron Ross has red hair."

"Exactly! Call that little brat a carrot-top and see how he likes it."

Barney had always felt that the counseling had been a little excessive, though he supposed that had had more to with him punching Spencer Katz in the nose for calling his mother a whore than the short paper he'd written for his English class.

Either way, he'd never doubted that James was his brother again.

**adagio**

When Barney was seven, his neighbor-slash-babysitter decided to teach him piano to while away the time.

The upright was a beaten, vintage Baldwin. The strings were barely in tune, and the keys were chipped, but Mrs. Shaw could recite the history of this piano with respect to her family going back 75 years. Barney would later realize that, given its age, not only was the piano in surprisingly good condition, but it was also worth a lot of money.

At seven, small and scrawny, Barney barely reached the pedals. Mrs. Shaw tapped him between his shoulder blades, reminding him to sit up straighter.

"All right, Barney. From the top."

He nodded and took a breath. Then, very carefully, he began playing "Heart & Soul," each hand moving stiffly but in time. It was slow, and he fudged a note here and there, but when it was over, Mrs. Shaw clapped excitedly and hugged him.

"Very good, Barney. I think that's enough for today. Would you like a snack before you start your homework?"

"Yes, please!"

The next day, after he had played "Heart & Soul" a few more times through, she handed him a book with a man on the cover, his long hair curly and flowing over his shoulders. "We're going to work on Bach minuets for a while. I think you'll like these." Carefully, she laid the worn book on the piano, letting it stand open. Instinctively, he straightened, hands poised over the piano keys. Slowly, he sight-read the piece, hands stumbling over the grace notes and trills, but when he reached the end, he turned to Mrs. Shaw and beamed.

"I can do this," he told her, voice serious and eyes shining.

"Yes," she replied, "I think you can."

**con brio**

"Dad, dad, check out my report card!" Barney knelt in front of the television, brandishing his report card. A line of As filled the far column, the marks alternating between A and A+ all the way down. "They gave me this pin for doing so well," he continued, fishing a small piece of cardstock out of his backpack.

The channel cut to commercial, and Barney leaned back. Then, deliberately, he turned off the television, slipped the pin and the report card back into his bag, and rose.

"I'm going to Mrs. Shaw's," he called to the empty house. He paused, grabbed his music, and walked out, locking the door behind him.

He jogged the two blocks to her place and knocked sharply on the door. "Come in, it's open," a voice called out of the open window. Inside, the front room was warm, brightly lit, and featured the old upright prominently. "Barney, you're early." Mrs. Shaw walked out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a small towel. "Why don't you go warm up while I finish cleaning."

He nodded and moved to the piano. The cover was down, but the wood was warm. Gently, he set the book down on the bench and ran his hands over the wood, fingers dipping into the carvings. The piano creaked softly under his touch, and he recoiled, hands lifting off of the body sharply. He moved the score onto the stand above the keyboard and slid into place on the bench. By now, his legs had lengthened and he could reach the pedals. He ran his hands over the cover for the keyboard, the texture of his skin making the wood rasp beneath his touch. Then, grasping the knobs firmly, he lifted the cover off the piano and positioned his hands for a warm-up.

His fingers were cool against the sun-warmed keys. He was pretty sure that wasn't healthy for the piano, but it wasn't really his piano. Taking a breath, he began to warm up. Scales, he thought without feeling, had to be an invention to bore piano students. A weed-out, he decided. If you could get past scales, he mused, then you must have had the mettle to be a pianist.

He was halfway through descending sevenths when Mrs. Shaw came in, pulling a chair behind her. "All right, you sound pretty warm. Why don't we start at the beginning." He nodded and poised his hands over the keys. He took a deep breath and began to play. It wasn't at tempo, but he was getting the runs more and more each time he practiced them. If he took it at a quarter of the tempo, he got the runs perfectly. But he couldn't take the piece quarter tempo, not if he wanted to _win_.

> _"Barney," Mrs. Shaw had turned to him looking excited. "There's going to be a piano competition in Manhattan in eight weeks. I think you should enter."_
> 
> _He gazed solemnly back at her. "Do you think I'm ready?"_
> 
> _"I believe in you," she replied, handing him a book. "And I believe that, with lots of practice, you can win. With this piece."_
> 
> _He took the large, heavy score from her hands and read the cover. "Piano Sonata No. 21 in C major, Op. 53...Waldstein?" He looked up at her quizzically. "Beethoven?"_
> 
> _"It's a tough piece, the toughest you've done so far. But." She paused and looked him in the eye. "You're ready for it."_
> 
> _His fingers clenched the book hard enough to crease. "It's hard?"_
> 
> _"Really hard."_
> 
> _He grinned and turned to the piano, opening the music and smoothing out the crease. "Then let's get started."_

  
They'd worked backwards through the book, though his homework had always been to practice the running passages. He's mimed playing the piano over and over until James had covered his hands with his larger, darker ones and told him to stop or he'd tie Barney to a chair, arms behind his back.

When he's played through the first portion, before the slower section, Mrs. Shaw signaled for him to stop. "Barney, what's written at the top of the first page?"

"Below the title?" She nodded. "Allegro con brio."

"What's that mean?"

He paused. "Well, allegro means fast."

"Yes, good." She paused as if gathering the words. "The second part means 'with vigor.' Beethoven wanted a dramatic sound through the whole piece."

"But it turns to dolce at--"

She nodded and spoke, cutting him off. "Yes, but overall the piece has to drive. Vigor is life, but...harder. Almost angrier. It has to spirited, fiery. Think Beethoven's Fifth." She glanced at his face and bit her lower lip. "Do you want to win this?"

He paused, searching her face for some sign. Seeing none, he looked her sharply in the eye. "Yes."

"How much?"

"A lot."

"How much is a lot?"

"More than anything," he retorted, without hesitation.

"Good. That feeling, of wanting to win?"

He nodded, hands fisting into the legs of his trousers.

"Harness it. Express it. That's _brio_."

He turned to the piano, hands positioned to play the opening chords in the air above the keys. He took a breath and felt a _something_ , a feeling he couldn't describe. It was closest to anger but it wasn't about destruction. He pushed the feeling, poked at it and prodded at it until it ran through him, warm and consuming. His fingers touched the keys and flew.

Six weeks later, he won third place in the competition and got another pin from school. The yellow ribbon went on the wall, hung carefully on a deliberately placed (and matching) thumbtack. It stood out prominently against the stark wall.

The pin went into a drawer.

**cambiare**

"Hey Mrs. Shaw. I'm here for my lesson."

She bit her lip and stepped aside. "Come in, Barney. Have a seat, there's something we need to talk about."

He flushed hot and cold and stepped unsteadily past the threshold. In his hands, he gripped the Chopin book tightly. Gingerly, he sat on the slipcovered sofa, wary and unsure. He had hoped this day wouldn't come.

Mrs. Shaw didn't look much better off. "Barney, I don't know if I'm the right teacher for you anymore."

He cocked his head to the side. "But I've still got so far to go." Stall tactics, he thought.

"That's true," she said slowly, nodding. "But it might be best if you studied with a different teacher. Someone better than I am."

"But I don't want anyone else." He swallowed past the lump in his throat, mentally kicking himself for reacting like this. "You've been with me from the beginning."

"But Barney, you've outgrown me." She looked down at her hands. "I want to keep being your teacher, I do, but you've become better than I know how to teach. You need a professional: a Juilliard student or an MSM grad to give you lessons and coach you."

He looked away, staring resolutely at the goldenrod cover of the Chopin collection. "Okay," he said, finally, blinking furiously. "So, this is our last lesson?" She nodded. "I want to play something for you." He rose and strode to the old upright. Setting the book on the stand, he gently ran his fingers over the keyboard cover, hearing the rasp of the wood. Then, he lifted the cover, slid onto the bench (as he always did) and opened the book, flipping pages until he found the Prelude he wanted. Flattening the crease, he straightened his shoulders, flexed his fingers, and poised his hands over the keys.

Minor chords echoed from the piano, his left hand gently pulsing the rhythm. His right hand tapped at forlorn notes two or more registers up. Once or twice the page blurred, but he made it through without missing a note. When his hands fell flat, his shoulders relaxed and his body loosened. After a long moment, he turned around.

Mrs. Shaw swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "That was beautiful," she said. "Thank you."

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

They sat in silence for a long time after that. When the shadows grew long, he rose and gathered his things. Mrs. Shaw saw him to the door. Then, in the doorway, she hugged him, tightly.

"Tell me when you find a new teacher, okay?"

He nodded into her shoulder. "I will."

"And come by sometimes, on weekends, and show me what you're learning." She pulled away but held him by the shoulders. "Mi piano es su piano," she said, a ghost of a smile skittering across her features.

"I promise," he said, blue eyes large in his face.

Two weeks later, he found a graduate student willing to take him on that he liked. Mrs. Shaw sounded thrilled, made him promise to show her the music Sandra had picked out for him. They agreed to meet on Saturday.

Two years later, Mrs. Shaw remarried and moved to Hartford. A quiet, Hispanic family moved into her home, and Barney stopped taking the really long way home from school.

**scherzando**

His guidance counselor (who barely knew his name, as far as Barney was concerned) reminded him the spring before junior year that he needed a fine arts credit to graduate. Grudgingly, he agreed to be in theater tech. What the hell, he figured. I'll learn to mess with lights, maybe pull the curtain open and closed, and hand out programs before the show. Can't be too bad.

Wrong.

(Sometimes Barney wondered why he ever really bothered. Hope is a thing with feathers - a _damned vulnerable_ thing with feathers.)

Tech theater meant painting sets and writing reports on why productions were staged in such-and-such specific manner. Barney had never hated videotaped plays until that year. Of course, Barney had never had strong feelings about taped plays one way or another until that year.

That spring, the choral department and the theater department had teamed up to put on _Copacabana_ , complete with tiered sets and elaborate costuming. Most of the outfits were recycled from an old _Cabaret_ production, but some were used as they were.

Two weeks until first dress rehearsal, the director asked the tech kids to wheel out the baby grand kept in the wings onstage. Mr. Grayden had agreed, and so five of the guys (and two girls directing traffic) pushed it out onstage. Three of them pulled the cover off while Barney stretched out his back. When he turned around, he stopped.

The baby grand was beautiful, all shiny black lacquered wood and gleaming ivory keys. The covering had kept dust away, and the music department paid handsomely to keep it in tune for concerts. His fingers ached to touch it, to move over its cool, full keyboard and hear just how different grands sounded from uprights.

Mr. Grayden clapped twice, snapping him back to reality. Glancing once more at the piano, he turned around and walked to the back, grabbing paint and brushes along the way. (He was really beginning to hate scenery. And nightclubs, fake or not.)

A week until first dress (and nine days until opening night) the director realized that, unless the tech kids got a couple dozen more hands to help them out, there was no way the setpieces or costumes were going to be finished in time. So, clapping twice at the end of rehearsal, Mr. Grayden glared down his troupe and just short of _ordered_ them to help the tech theater kids and the costume master finish that evening.

Which was how Barney found himself still in the tech workshop at 10.30 on a Tuesday night, paintbrush in hand and neck aching. He tried to really not think about any of the myriad homework assignments he had yet to even begin. A few strokes later, the backdrop was finished, and he threw the paintbrush down with a clatter. "I'm taking five," he told the figure ten feet away. The other person - Pete Shameson - nodded tiredly and continued painting palm trees and shadows.

Standing, Barney stretched, content to let his muscles remember being long and uncramped. Carefully shaking his legs out, he opted to walk around the theater, hoping that the paint fumes weren't as strong there. Everywhere, people were sprawled out, paint trays filled with garish, bright colors and setpieces outlined in stark black lines. Hands - fingers and palms and wrists - were spattered with paint. Barney hid a smile when he saw one girl with a line of blue along her cheek. Soon, though, large backdrops gave way to chairs and props, and even those morphed into costumes. Yards of fabric and spools of colored (and uncolored) thread lay everywhere as a circle of actors and costume masters sang a round quietly while stitching sequins onto everything.

Eventually, though, the floor cleared. Suddenly, Barney found himself onstage, baby grand still poised and polished, though re-covered. Before he could stop himself, he pulled off the heavy material in sharp tugs. It gleamed under the light of the blues, a large dark shadow melting into the stage floor. Pulling the bench out from under the keyboard, Barney sat, fingers automatically adjusting the seat and reaching for the pedals. Splayed fingers ran over the black lacquered wood, smooth and unmarred. The gold lettering was faded, but still proudly read Yamaha.

Decisively, he opened the cover of the piano, and before him were the keys, ivory-colored and immaculate. Even these were polished, smooth and shining. Resting his hands on the keyboard, he mimed playing scales until the ache in his wrist faded and his fingers felt alive, a near-audible hum of something like electricity resonating in the bones. He touched his hands to the keys and _played_.

The first few measures of Joplin's "The Entertainer" were a little shaky - he hadn't practiced in a while or really warmed up at all - but then the octaves came easily, and he felt himself grin as the swaying tempo affected him, head dipping in time to the left hand. The tempo stayed free and easy - not too fast, and if anything it was a touch slower than written, but he'd been at school for about six hours longer than he should have, and he was nothing if not tired. He watched with some measure of detachment as his fingers rolled up and down the keyboard. He took a repeat for his own pleasure, reiterating the later, more connected passage. The last chord he used the pedals to maintain, letting the sound fade out slowly. He pulled his hands off of the keys and his foot off of the pedal and saw many pairs of eyes staring at him, wide and awed.

"Stinson?" Joe Bankston, from his tech class, stared, brow knitted in something speculative. His hands held a jacket that needed more sequined accents in slack fingers. "You play piano?"

"Yeah," Barney replied, impassively peering back at the small sea of faces.

Joe paused. "Awesome."

Barney grinned. "I got sick of painting. I'm pretty sure the paint fumes are getting me high." He rose from the chair and headed to Joe. Around him, the air lost its choking silence, and people resumed their conversations. Barney noticed that he didn't hear his name at all.

"Want to switch? I think I could use a little scent therapy."

"Sewing?" Barney scoffed. "Please. I'm a pianist, Joe. Needles could ruin me."

**fermata**

High school, he decided, was a holding pattern.

Senior year meant two things to Barney: college and senioritis. The latter meant he didn't really need to worry about his homework; by now, he knew how to work the system, had perfected his study habits. The former, however, was trickier. He honestly didn't know where he wanted to apply, only that he wanted to go far enough away that no one would or could follow him.

"Well, Barney, it depends." His counselor Mrs. Frey, had maybe met with him once or twice before this moment. Barney felt pretty certain in asserting that she knew him by file alone. "You've got lots of options. You've made pretty solid grades, your teachers say you're social and a good team player." She looked up from his permanent record, studying his face. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to do?"

He paused. "Not really. Maybe open a shop or something."

"Business?"

"Or write - I like doing the op-eds for the school paper."

She steepled her fingers. Peering over her hands, she looked almost sinister. Barney fidgeted uncomfortably. "Which subjects did you enjoy the most, do you think?"

Barney thought hard. "Speech was good. I liked presenting and debating."

"Any others?"

"Theater tech. Sophomore and junior English. Graphics design."

Mrs. Frey smiled. "Now we're getting somewhere." She scribbled a short list onto a notepad. "Look into these colleges and we'll meet again next week, okay?"

Barney nodded.

Later, as he sat in the school library sifting through books about universities and rankings, he paused and stared at the short list. Carnegie Mellon. CUNY. Rutgers. (There was actually a big star by Rutgers - he supposed she thought it would be a good place for him.) Colgate. Wesleyan. Ringling. Sighing, he idly flipped pages in his university guide, half-heartedly looking for CUNY when his hand stopped.

Cornell.

Why the hell not, he thought, and began to read. Hospitality management looked interesting, and it would mean he could work with clients from all over the world. And Ithaca was far enough away that he could build a life for himself far from Queens.

 _Cornell_ , he thought, and the word tasted like resolution.

Of course, Mrs. Frey had the final say.

"You want to apply for Cornell?"

Barney nodded. "And the other ones on your list. Rutgers looks pretty good."

Mrs. Frey peered at him over the rims of her glasses. "Why Cornell?"

He shrugged. "It just seems like a place I'd like."

"Okay." She pushed a small stack of papers at him. "You'll need to fill these out, and you'll need four letters of recommendation. I'll read them and tell you which two you want to pick. If you want Cornell, then we're going to have to move fast and apply early decision. What did you score on the SAT?"

"1440," he replied, shuffling through the papers. Six sets of applications stared back at him, the gray recycled paper leaving his hands feeling dusty. "Is that high enough?"

"Yes. And you've got activities and involvement on your side. Do you volunteer anywhere?"

"Soup kitchen twice a week," he admitted. "It's for NHS."

"Good. You'll want to develop your resume and submit that. Oh, and make sure you have an English teacher read your essays before you send them in."

"When should I send them in?"

"Cornell you want to submit before the early decision date. The rest you need to hold on to until you hear from Cornell. Think you can do it?"

"It's the second week of September."

She grinned. "Not what I asked."

"Yeah." He beamed at her. "I definitely can."

**anacrusis**

Today.

It had to be today, he was sure of it. He didn't bother to rush home, as much as he had wanted to. Disappointment was so regular a feature in his life; he didn't feel like rushing home to bad news. The city bus lumbered through the streets, rocking its passengers as it hit every pothole in the road. His fingers twisted into the canvas material of his backpack, tugged at the zippers, and drummed on the back of the seat in front of him.

By the time the bus reached his stop, he was a bundle of barely contained nerves. His hands shook so hard, he stuffed them into his pockets for the walk home, pacing his steps by humming an etude. When he finally did reach his home, his hands were barely able to turn the key to get into his house. Pushing the door open, he felt the air around him shift.

"I'm home," he called, dumping his backpack into its usual corner. "Mom? You home?" He kicked the door shut and walked into the kitchen. "Did you get the mail?" On the island in the middle of the kitchen was a stack of letters. In a flash, he was sifting through the letters, looking for a Cornell seal.

The last letter, an overlarge envelope, bore the coat of arms. He tore it open haphazardly, edge ragged and messy as he pulled out the thick stack of papers inside. On top was a letter on cream-colored stationary, the seal in the top left corner.

"Dear Mr. Stinson," he read, heart racing. "We are pleased to welcome you to Cornell University."

**da capo**

Barney couldn't stop looking up.

The buildings weren't as tall as they were in New York, but there was something charming about the campus. He looked across the street and imagined himself walking there, backpack laden down with textbooks and course schedule in hand. He would sit in the dining hall with a group of friends, chatting and eating and teasing each other in turn.

James hauled the last of his suitcases onto Barney's dorm bed. It was narrower than the bed he had at home, but longer, and it lacked a box spring. "Oof. Okay, Barney, that's the last of the suitcases from the car." Barney's roommate hadn't moved in just yet, but Barney had unpacked efficiently, his mother helping him place stacks of sweaters and heavy coats into bins to slide under the bed. Piles of neatly folded t-shirts, jeans, socks, boxers, cargo shorts, and button-downs had disappeared into his closet. After that had been posters, lights, setting up a desk lamp, and hauling boxes out to the dumpster.

Tired and sweaty, Barney straightened and surveyed his room. Bare half aside, it was generally sparse and tiny. The cement-block walls were painted white once, but the color had muted with time to something like a pale gray. The carpeting appeared newer, but the desk and sliding closet doors were aged and in need of a good sanding. But the space was _his_ \- well, half his - and it meant the start of the rest of his life.

He felt a hand rub at his shoulders and caught sight of his mother's red hair out of the corner of his eye. "I'm so proud of you, Barney," she said, eyes starry with tears. Pulling him into a hug, she cupped the back of his head with her hand.

He pressed his face into her shoulder and breathed deeply, embracing her tightly. "Thanks, Mom."

When they pulled apart, James, clapped him once on the shoulder. "Don't do anything I wouldn't encourage you to do anyway."

"And make sure I watch TPIR," Barney parroted back, rolling his eyes, but his grin didn't falter. "I know. Thanks for helping me move."

James waved off his thanks. "Like I'd miss my baby brother moving to college."

Barney shrugged. "Look, bro, no hands."

Barney's mother checked the alarm clock. "James, if we want to make it back to the city before the traffic gets bad, we should leave soon."

"Okay. Barney, lunch is on you."

"What? Why do I have to pay for lunch?"

"Quiet, Merit-Based Scholarships. We helped you move in. Least you could do is buy us lunch."

Barney locked the door behind him, turning the knob to double-check. "Oh, _fine_ ," he replied, pretending to be exasperated. The effect was ruined by his smile - he couldn't stop grinning - and they filed downstairs bickering, their mother hiding her laughter behind a hand.

**pastorale**

All-nighters were a new experience for Barney. In high school, he hadn't needed to stay up that late, well, ever. But here, in college, the turnaround was much, much sooner than he'd expected, and between living his life and going to class, there just didn't seem to be enough hours in the day.

Kevin, his roommate, was an engineering major. Barney swore he never saw Kevin sleep. Ever. He was always off at the library studying, doing homework, or just not around. Barney wasn't really sure what his roommate did with his time, but Barney was kept busy enough on his own. Apparently, hospitality management majors (or "hotelies" as the rest of the university knew them) were required to work in the on-campus hotel, The Statler Hotel, for experience. The salary was nice, but between changing sheets, memorizing menus, and trying to recall how to fold napkins correctly, Barney felt behind almost all of the time.

It'll get better, he told himself.

And it did - after about midterms, suddenly his life clicked into place, and Barney found himself with spare time (mysteriously) and nothing to do with himself. One day, he was in his room reading a book when a knock at his open door made him look up.

"Hey, do you want to go see a concert with me?" Derek was a loud, mildly obnoxious floormate. He hailed from Chicagoland, as he called it, and he loved music. He always knew when and where concerts were happening. Barney wasn't sure what to make of Derek, who dressed like a 50s era beatnik complete with black beret.

"Tonight?"

"Yeah. There's a jazz band playing downtown." Derek jerked his head to the side. "Come on! It'll be fun."

Barney considered for a moment. Nothing playing at the union, homework already done. "Yeah, okay."

It turned out Derek had recruited a handful of others from the floor to go with him, and he was planning on meeting his boyfriend there as well. Barney found himself oddly excited. He hadn't gone to a concert that wasn't school-related in a long time, and Derek chattered the entire time over to the theater. "Oh, they're just _fabulous_. Everyone says they're the best jazz group in upstate New York."

"So why're they in _Ithaca_?" Jun muttered. Barney stifled a laugh.

Derek shot her a glare. "Because they're Cornell alumni."

The jazz club was packed, but they managed to squeeze themselves in and grab a tiny table around which to crowd. Barney, with light hair and eyes, seemed to glow in the low light, or so Derek's boyfriend, Nick, told him. Barney blushed and ducked his head, causing Jun and Laura to tease him. The noise around them was a good, dull roar, and people in the club seemed to be enjoying themselves. A few professors were sipping drinks at the bar, and Barney saw a handful of faces he recognized from his lecture classes - TAs and grad students, mostly, but a good number of undergrads.

The lounge area's lights dimmed and a spotlight shone on the stage. "Hey everybody, thanks for joining us tonight. I'm Chuck Straess and we're the Doits. We've got a great set lined up for youse guys. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the music." He ducked back and picked up his saxophone. With a couple of fast gestures, the four-man band was playing.

Four songs in, and three Cokes down, Barney felt light. The music was all around him, his floormates were teasing each other and laughing, and the bar was dim, the chatter a murmur in the background. He felt the drumkit's bass patter in his bones, and the saxophone's crooning made goosepimples spring to life across his arms. Laura teased Jun about some guy in her Bio class, and Derek and Nick were making eyes at each other while Matt and Tian goaded them. Barney stirred his drink with the straw, the ice clinking softly against the sides, and surveyed the room, relaxed and loose-limbed. Something about the whole scene felt _right_ , and he smiled, soft and genuine.

In that moment, Barney thought he was happier than he'd ever been.

**appassionato**

Barney would never know if it was genius or stupidity to post flyers advertising a new jazz group in The Statler. On the one hand, you couldn't miss them. On the other, they got taken down pretty quickly. Barney managed to stuff one into his pocket before the shift manager tore every salmon-colored sheet off the first floor walls.

Later, when his shift of making beds and washing linens had finished, he smoothed out the wrinkled sheet of paper and read the details carefully. Four o'clock next Wednesday, in the JAM Performance Space.

That gave him nine days.

That first night, he warmed up at a piano and half-heartedly played through Joplin's "The Entertainer," but it reminded him too much of youth, of being young and immature, so he decided against it. He spent the evening running through drills and exercises, stretching his fingers and his mind. Soon, he managed to plink out bits from _West Side Story_ by ear. He was working on "Tonight," when his hands slipped and he hit another, remarkably familiar note pattern. He trilled through it again, over and over, each time faster. His fingers pressed into chords, dissonant and heavy. Though the sound was despair, Barney grinned.

Seven days later, he walked into the p-space, music clutched in-hand, and looked around him in wonder. He hadn't know a space like this existed on-campus. Near the piano was a table with three seated at it. The guy on the end rose and smiled. "Hey, I'm Xander. Thanks for coming out to audition." Barney shook his hand, jittery, and smiled nervously. "Have you warmed up already?"

Barney nodded. "Should I just go ahead and perform?"

The young woman sitting in the center nodded as Xander took his seat. "Yeah. Just a couple of quick questions. Name?"

"Barney Stinson." Barney placed the music - photocopied pages taped together carefully at the edges - on the piano and slowly ran his hands over the keys of the shining baby grand.

"Year?"

"Freshman."

"How long have you been playing piano?"

Barney paused and did some math. "Almost 12 years."

The last person seated at the table whistled. "Really?" He peered at Barney over thick, black frames. His nose was pierced, as was the cartilage of his ear. The soul patch was out of place on his face, but the calculating look he focused on Barney was likely the reason why. "Where are you from?"

"Manhattan," he replied absently, hands silently stroking the ivory-colored keys, nails skimming the lacquer.

The girl in the middle cleared her throat. "What are you going to perform for us?"

"Rhapsody in Blue by Gershwin." His palms flattened, and his fingers stretched apart for a moment before curling into fists. After a moment, they relaxed into his playing handshape, wrists remaining elevated.

"You hiding a big band somewhere?" Piercing-and-soul-patch guy joked, looking around.

The girl smacked the guy on the shoulder and smiled at Barney. "Please, go ahead and play."

Barney nodded and turned to the music. The first measure. He closed his eyes and took a breath. Then, his fingers flew, a rumble building to a breath. Discordant harmonies resolved and Barney quietly tuned out everything that wasn't his hands, the black notes on the white paper, and the feeling of being in the center of a hurricane of music.

The piece was challenging - he was essentially mimicking a big band with two hands and some pedals. His hands moved quickly, long fingers barely avoiding tripping over one another to capture every note. The tempo shifted up, faster, and he felt a manic grin sweep across his features as he slid into muscle memory, fingers finding the notes and eyes scanning across the pages, sliding from system to system.

The piece slipped into a whimsical section, and he played with some flair, hands deliberately showy as he trilled pitches. Here he snuck a glance at his judges. Xander's brow was furrowed, fingers on his chin. The girl's face a smooth, blank expression, though her hand scribbled furiously. Piercings guy had his hand covering his mouth, and Barney didn't have enough time to read his expression.

The tempo suddenly turned allegro, and his full attention was once more torn between the keys and the music. A real sense of urgency poured out of the music; his heart raced as his fingers seemed to blur. Then the tempo changed again, shifting to something sweet and earnest. Barney felt his eyes sliding closed, fingers knowing this section instinctively. When the chording picked up, he glanced at the keyboard every few measures, making sure every finger was in place. He felt his torso moving back and forth as if to mimic the ebb and flow of the runs.

Once more, the music turned urgent, and Barney felt like he couldn't breathe, the notes coming fast and staccato. He bounced back and forth from the bass to the high end of the keyboard, sounds contrasting. The notes began to run into one another, hurried and insistent. Then, a line of ascending chords, a snap at a rest, and a return to the melody in dark, heavy chording. His foot tapped on the pedal, keeping time. He took a liberal rallentado at the end, making the ending broad and sweeping. Holding the pedal, he let the last chord ring until it faded into a buzz.

His fingers slipped off of the keys, pads sliding along the false ivory until his fingernails caught on the edges. Gently, he lowered the cover on the keyboard, hand running along the black laquered surface. Then, slowly, he stood and looked at the panel of judges.

Xander nodded absently as he scribbled notes. Piercings nodded thoughtfully, jotting a note or two on his paper.

The woman in the middle smiled at him and reached her hand out. "Welcome to the group."

**prestissimo**

"You ready?"

Barney looked up at Xander with large eyes, breath coming in shallow bursts. "Do I have to answer that?"

Xander chuckled. "Breathe, B. You're gonna be fine."

"Yeah?" Barney swallowed, hard. "Tell that to my shaking hands."

Pericings - Jason - fiddled with the tunings on his bass. "Your hands'll steady. Listen to Xander. Deep breaths."

"In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four," chimed Ruby.

"Not helping," Barney grit out, teeth clenched.

She huffed. "Well, that napkin that was helping is now confetti."

Barney looked down at his hands. The napkin was torn to shreds. "Oh," he replied quietly.

"Seriously, B. You need to calm down." Xander spun a stick in his hands, fingers nimbly twirling it in circles.

Jason raised an eyebrow. "You're a little scarily calm there, Xander."

"Show is a show. What's the worst that could happen?"

"They could boo us off stage," Ruby supplied cheerily.

"Wonderful," Barney muttered, dumping the shredded napkin into a trashcan. "At least we'll be memorable."

The other three met each other's gazes and laughed. "We knew we liked you for a reason, B." Xander stopped spinning the drum stick. "Okay. Try this: have you been to every rehearsal? Practiced every piece until you could play them in your sleep?"

"I did once," Barney noted, half-smiling. "Kevin wondered why I was poking him in rhythm for ten minutes before going back to sleep."

Xander shook his head. "The point is, you're going to be fine."

The club's stage manager walked up to them. "You're on in two."

"Showtime." Jason grinned and picked up his bass.

"Yay, team." Ruby rolled her eyes and slipped on her saxophone.

Xander reached into his pocket. "Put these on." He pressed something into Barney's hands. "You'll be great." He patted him on the shoulder and moved past him. Barney looked down into his hand.

Sunglasses.

He laughed, slipped them on the top of his head, and lined up behind Xander.

Barney had forgotten what going onstage felt like. The lights were blindingly bright, and the audience was just a mass of dark shapes. Xander took the stool behind the drumkit, and Ruby took the lead microphone. As she greeted the audience, Barney adjusted the piano stool, cracked his knuckles, raised the lid, and slipped on the sunglasses.

Xander counted off the beat and Barney's fingers _flew_ , right hand skipping up the piano as he played through a run of fast notes. Ruby's saxophone sounded tinny and far away, and the bass drum thudded in his chest like a second heart.

Hours later, they stumbled out of the bar smelling like cigarettes and cheap brew, laughing and whooping into the night air.

"Yo, B, you cool?"

Barney pumped a fist in the air. "We _killed_ it. That was awesome."

Ruby laughed, long and low and husky. "Too bad that's the last show of the year."

Barney blinked up at her, suddenly subdued. "What?" His lower lip trembled.

Jason shook his hands rapidly. "Chill out, we're going to perform next semester, too."

"Oh." Barney grinned again. "Awesome! This was...this was..."

Xander rubbed his hands together. "The stuff of legends!"

"Exactly!" Barney's grin threatened to crack his face in two. "This was _legendary_."

The other three paused. "You're such a dork," Ruby said at last, and gave Barney a gentle slap upside the head.

"You know you love me." He spun in a circle in the middle of the dark, empty street.

Xander shook his head. "Shut up, Stevie Wonder, and watch where you're going."

**rallentando**

"G seven, flat nine," Barney muttered as he positioned his hands on the keyboard. The stage in Barnes Hall was open and empty, only the two grand pianos and a handful of chairs and stands scattered across the stage. Barney sat at one piano, fingers flexing against the keyboard, as he read a fake book. Xander had approached him two weeks ago about being the rehearsal pianist for an a cappella jazz group.

_"Please, B? I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."_

_Barney leveled an unamused stare. "You're just trying to get into Mischa's pants."_

_Xander grinned. "Exactly. It's important!"_

_Barney rolled his eyes. "No."_

_"What? C'mon, B! Do this for me?"_

_"And if I do?"_

_Xander's shoulders fell. "What do you want?"_

_"Piano solo on Manteca. And a bottle of Smirnoff."_

_"Done. Rehearsal starts at four on Thursday in Barnes Hall. Don't be late."_

_"You mean don't embarrass you."_

_"I knew I liked you for some reason, B."_

Barney showed up at two, a thick stack of pages hastily photocopied from a fake book in hand. He had never used a fake book before, and the notation was unusual. He had spent the first hour puzzling out the notation and the last half hour trying to play the three pieces Xander had passed on to him.

The door at the back of the room opened, the latch releasing noisily. Barney glanced up and then back to the music. One of the group members, he thought, and continued to read the piece. Another glance and he noted her clothes: long, heavy black coat buttoned and belted, hat, scarf, and gloves. She stamped her feet in her heavy boots, and the noise echoed throughout the space. She slid the backpack off of her shoulder, dropping it with a thud in a chair.

"You like to make an entrance, don't you?" Barney asked, hands sliding off of the keys. He half-turned on the piano bench to face her.

Back turned to him, she pulled off her gloves and hat, revealing long, blonde hair pulled back. "What can I say, I was just born to be seen." She shrugged off the coat, revealing a boat-necked white sweater and high-waisted pants. Reaching forward, she pulled out a binder from her backpack and came up to the stage. "You're the new pianist, then?"

"Yeah," Barney replied, shuffling the pages on the piano stand into a semblance of order. "Xander recruited me for Mischa."

She snorted derisively, her heavy footfalls thudding on the stage. "If he really wants to sleep with her, he needs to make a better move." She flashed him a grin and set the binder down on a stand, pulling it up for her height. Then, she walked over to the side of the piano and leaned forward. "What's your name?"

Barney stopped shuffling the papers and looked at her. "Name's Barney. Barney Stinson."

"Barney-Barney Stinson? That's a really unusual name."

"Yeah, well, my mom was kind of weird." He winked at her.

She laughed and reached back, pulling the scrunchie out of her hair. The blonde waves cascaded free, over her shoulders and forward to frame her face. The whole world slowed for just one second, and Barney knew he would never forget this moment for as long as he lived.

She smiled - wide and full and sincere and _at him_ \- and held out her hand. "My name's Shannon. Nice to meet you."

**pedale**

It isn't tomorrow until you hit three in the morning, Barney thought, eyes blinking blearily in the low light of the lounge. Most of his floor was done with midterms and so had begun to party hearty, but Barney's spring semester was unrelentingly difficult, and his midterms were plentiful. Backpack heavy, he had headed downstairs to the lounge around eight. Now, at half past three, the dozen quiet souls that had been present earlier had departed long ago. Only three or four remained, two dozing in uncomfortable chairs. Barney had seen their heads nod in sleepiness when he had last stood to stretch, lanky frame protesting against his study habits.

He stood, body extending to its maximum. The other conscious occupant glanced his way before returning to her text. As Barney stretched his back, she laid down her pencil and leaned against the back of the couch, eyes closed and fingers massaging the nape of her neck.

He quietly circled the room, sock-clad feet a whisper against the carpet of the lounge. As he moved, he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, joints popping for his trouble. He lolled his head back, stopping so that he didn't run into anything. (The last thing he needed was to explain to the nurse how he'd broken something at three-thirty in the morning fully sober.) When he righted his head, he found himself facing the baby grand piano in the far corner of the room.

Gently, he ran his hands over the closed lid, lacquer chipped from years of use and abuse. The pads of his fingers felt the grain of the wood, his gentle touch avoiding splinters. He made his way around the instrument, hand still caressing the body. He turned and faced the keyboard. It, like the body, was chipped and damaged, and it appeared one or two of the keys stuck, but all eighty-eight keys seemed to gleam at him under the overbright fluorescent lights.

Pulling out the bench, he sat at the keyboard, hands folded in his lap. Glancing over the top of the piano, he saw the other waking occupant continuing to massage her neck. In the silence, he could hear the heavy, slow breathing of the other two. Confident that none of them would really mind, he pressed down on the soft pedal and began to play.

The opening chords of Debussy's "Clair de Lune" rang out softly, the major chords bright and cheery in the silence. He took his time, letting the notes linger in the air. The world's focus turned narrow, and he felt like he stood outside of himself. Sofas and chairs and linoleum aside, the low lights and the music felt _right_ in a way he couldn't articulate later on.

The middle section, with its rolling left hand, he played gently. The girl in the far corner, massaging her neck, stilled and turned her eyes to him. He felt her eyes more than he saw them, his own gaze fully concentrated on the keyboard, on watching the ivory keys dip down. Every iteration of the bass line's theme echoed in his chest cavity, softening pedal be damned. He closed his eyes and felt his whole body humming, every muscle and bone and _cell_ vibrating in harmony with the sound, every part of him playing the movement.

Eyes still closed, his hands and fingers moved frantically over the keyboard until suddenly they paused once more to let the notes ring out, long and still and oscillating in the silence. The right hand played the familiar chords while the left hand softly sustained long, low notes. With the last bars, he took liberty with the tempo, placing the notes very deliberately. The last note rang, soft and high, in the lounge for an infinite moment.

When the note had dissipated to the faint buzzing of the fluorescent bulbs overhead, he opened his eyes and pulled back his hands, fisting them on his knees. He breathed in deeply, shoulders sagging as he exhaled.

A lone pair of hands clapping caught his attention. The waking occupant leaned forward, her elbows balanced on the knees of her folded legs and head perched on clasped hands. "That was beautiful," she added, tilting her head to the side slightly.

"Thanks," Barney replied, suddenly shy. He rose and returned to his notes. He passed the two other occupants and noted that their breathing hadn't changed in the slightest, though one was now drooling. "Charming," he muttered, sidestepping their outstretched legs.

Across the room, the girl let out a huff of a laugh. Barney hid his smile behind a sheaf of papers.

**vittorioso**

Mischa's hand made the cutoff gesture all musicians know almost instinctively. The jazzy chord the eight voices held stopped in unison, and the group members grinned at each other. "Wonderful!" The petite blonde clapped her hands excitedly. "We'll pick up here next week. Have a great night, guys!"

The group lined their stands along one side of the stage and jumped down to grab their things.

Barney's hands shook, but he figured it was now or never. "Hey, Shannon?"

She paused in wrapping her scarf around her neck. "Yeah?"

"Wait for me? I'll walk out with you."

She nodded and turned back to packing away her music. Barney's shaking hands barely managed to stuff the taped sheets into the pocket of the folder. Shoving the folder, awkwardly-stuffed sheets and all, into the depths of his backpack, he pulled on his coat and backpack and jumped off the stage.

"You should be careful jumping down from there." Shannon raised an eyebrow at him, purple beret placed at a jaunty angle on her head. They walked out of the building into the cold wind. Immediately, her cheeks and lips turned pink.

Barney squashed thoughts of kissing her. "W-why?" he stammered, covering his nervousness with a not-entirely-fake shiver.

"I did that once and ended up twisting my ankle. I couldn't stand for a week."

"Were you wearing stiletto heels?"

"...Maybe."

He laughed. "I think I'll be okay." He glanced sideways at her. "But. I'll be careful."

She beamed. "You're such a sweetheart. So, what'd you think of rehearsal today?"

Barney kicked at a snowdrift. "You guys sounded great on 'Acapulco,' but the tenors are still shaky in the middle there."

Shannon nodded, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. "Mischa really needs to do a sectional again."

"Definitely." There was a comfortable silence for a few moments. "It's so pretty here in the winter."

"Seriously? It's gloomy and gray and gross." She raised an eyebrow at him.

Pointedly, he didn't look at her. "Sure, but it's not like in the city. Snow turns into gray slush under all the tires, and everywhere is slick and dirty."

"That's right, you're from the city." She clicked her tongue. "I always forget."

He shrugged. "It's easy to forget up here." They approached a fork in the path. "Which way are you going?"

She pointed left. "Off to the library. You?"

He jerked his thumb to the right. "Grabbing a bite and then I have class."

"Then I guess this is where we part ways. Thanks for walking with me."

Barney swallowed, hands shaking again even though they were stuffed into pockets. "Actually, Shannon, there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"Oh?" She cocked her head to the side, expression curious.

"I, uh, I..." He laughed nervously and scuffed his shoe. "This went a lot better in my head," he confessed.

She smiled back and held up her right hand. "I promise I won't laugh!"

He grinned and took a slight step towards her. "What are you doing Friday night?"

"Nothing yet," she replied, right hand falling back to her side.

"Would you like to go out?" He looked directly at her when he asked, corners of his mouth turned up in a nervous smile.

Her face held a surprised expression.

"With me. On a date," he clarified quickly. "Together."

Suddenly, she smiled wide, eyes sparkling with happiness. "Absolutely."

He sighed in relief. "I'll pick you up at your dorm at seven?"

"I'll be in the lobby."

"Great. Good. Okay, then..."

"See you in a couple of days, Barney." She waved, smile still wide, and took off toward the library.

Barney watched her walk away for a moment before turning down the right-hand path. Then, clenching his right hand into a fist, he pumped it in the air. "Yes!" he cheered under his breath before stuffing his hand back into a pocket. His grin, however, didn't fade until much later. 

[Part Two](http://kasuchi.livejournal.com/251596.html)


	2. Part Two

**allegro**

"You realize that it's still pretty cold outside, right?"

"No it's not."

"Shannon, it's not even fifty today." 

She raised an eyebrow at him and hefted her blanket on her hip. "Quit being a baby and carry this for me."

Barney sighed and rolled his eyes but dutifully accepted the proffered heavy blanket from her hands. She shifted the picnic basket further up her arm until it was nestled in the crook of her elbow. "So, why are we having a picnic?"

"Because." 

He waited for her to continue. She simply continued walking. "Because...?"

She smiled sunnily at him. He sighed and shook his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "Okay, okay. Just let me know when we're getting close."

She spun around to face him, steps sure even though she was walking backwards in chunky boots. "We're almost there, geez." 

He smiled guilelessly at her. She pivoted on her heel and continued to lead the way, hips and basket swinging. Left, right, left, right, he thought, thoroughly hypnotized. He didn't notice she'd stopped until he nearly ran into her. "Whoa!"

"We're here!" 

She had led them to a secluded part of campus, where the trees were tall and the lawn stretched for a distance. The weather had been remarkably good of late, and the grass was an absolute green. Above, the sky was an absolute, perfect blue, spotted with large, puffy clouds ambling by slowly. 

"Nice. Where should I lay out the blanket?"

She pointed away from the trees. "Out in the middle. It'll be nice to get some sun."

"What about tan lines?"

She shot him a puzzled look. "Barney, I swear sometimes you're more of a girl than I am."

"Sorry, sorry. James always slathered me down with sunscreen when I went outside. Said my pasty skin would burn like toast otherwise."

Shannon wrinkled her nose. "Great imagery." She set the basket down and knelt by it, pulling out plastic boxes filled with salad, sandwiches, and fruit. "Sit, c'mon. This isn't going to eat itself." 

"Yes, ma'am." He quickly plopped down and accepted the Tupperware she pressed into his hands. "This looks amazing, Shannon." 

She smiled shyly and ducked her head, curtain of hair spilling over her shoulder. "Thanks, B." She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips, slow and languid. "Happy six-month anniversary." 

He smiled and pulled her in for another long, slow kiss. "Happy anniversary," he murmured against her mouth, lips pulling back into a grin.

Later, when they were full to bursting and the sun was high in the sky, the two of them lay on the blanket eyes turned towards the sky watching clouds roll past slowly. 

"Bunny!" Shannon pointed up and to the right. 

"Seriously? It's a pickaxe."

She huffed a laugh. "You're really bad at this." 

"Sue me."

"I might, you know! I _am_ prelaw."

He laughed and sought out her hand, twining his fingers in hers. "I'm really happy you're here with me," he said solemnly, head turned to look at her. 

She squeezed his hand gently. "Me too," she replied, green eyes meeting his blue ones. She turned back to the sky. "I haven't done this since I was a kid." She breathed deeply, eyes fluttering shut as she exhaled. "One of the first things I remember is going on the swings. My mom was pushing me, and I kept telling her to let me go higher." 

He chucked softly. "Why am I not surprised." 

She elbowed him gently. "Hush. What about you? What's the first thing you remember?" 

He stared up into the sky for a long moment before turning his head to look at her, eyes bluer than they'd ever been. Silently, he twined his fingers with hers. "Doing this with James," he murmured, gaze and hands steady.

**morendo**

"Shannon, why are we going two hours further north on a Saturday in September? Shouldn't we, I don't know, study for the quizzes that we have on Monday or something?" 

"Barney, would you shut up?" She rolled her eyes and bit back a sigh.

"I will not. And what is with your ridiculous outfit? Shannon, retro isn't even _in_ right now. And I'd know - James made for damn sure I knew this before I moved back up. He said it's gospel truth from The Bible."

"As in, the word of God?" 

"What? No!" He shot her a look that clearly asked if she was insane. "Vogue September issue." 

Shannon laughed and tugged at his arm. "Come on, Barney. You promised me a weekend where _I_ could pick everything." She narrowed her eyes and pointed at the bridge of his nose. It made him go cross-eyed. "Don't forget. You owe me, Stinson."

He batted her hand away and pulled her back to him, kissing her until he felt light-headed. "Yeah, okay, lead the way," he managed, breath warm against her skin. 

She giggled and pulled away, boho skirt and peasant top flaring out around her. The beads in her hair clattered together as she tugged him forward. Finally, he gave in and raced to the site behind her, plaid shirt billowing out around him. When she slowed down, he grabbed her from behind and spun her around. She laughed, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before taking his hand and leading the way to the curb where the station wagon was parked, Around the open hatch door were some knapsacks and other people dressed similarly to Shannon. 

"Hey everyone," she called. "This is my boyfriend, Barney." 

He raised a hand and waved at them, a quick gesture that was more the extending of fingers than a wave. 

"Hey, Barney," they greeted, voices nearly a chorus. A couple of them came up to Shannon and asked her about her classes or choir. Barney untwined his fingers from hers and wandered off, hands stuffed into the pockets of his acid wash jeans. The site was by the engineering buildings, and he rarely if ever ventured into this part of campus. (Of course, few engineers really bothered to tour the hotel, so.) The clearing was pretty quiet, just the echo of voices against the buildings. 

"So, Barney, what's your major?" A tallish young man with brown hair appeared beside him, tie-dye headband strangely suited to his features.

"I'm a hotelie. You?"

"Kinesthesiology."

Barney raised an eyebrow. "P.E.?"

The other guy laughed. "Sort of. Physical therapist." He held out his hand, wavy hair framing his face. "Sean."

Barney shook the guy's hand firmly. "Nice to meet you." He rolled a shoulder and surveyed the ragtag group. "So, how'd you get involved in this, anyway?"

"Same as the others, I guess. I realized I gave a shit, and wanted to find other people who did, too."

"Oh." 

There was a sharp whistle from near the car. "Get in, we're heading out!" a voice cried. Cheers rose up from the people nearby, and everyone headed for the aged car. Barney managed to squish into the middle row, Shannon pressed up against him on one side. On the other, the car door dug into his ribs. He ignored that, focusing instead on the small braids in her hair. 

"I like your braids," he murmured, mouth near her ear. 

She beamed but didn't turn to face him. "Thanks," she replied, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. 

As the car rolled onto the highway, he poked Shannon in the arm. "I think I'm going to take a nap. That okay?"

She nodded. "All right, baby." She gently untangled their fingers, and he flashed her a small smile before settling into the crook of the seat.

An hour later, he roused to the sound of people singing along to the radio. Blinking blearily, he sat up straight and stretched, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. "Shannon?"

"Morning, sleepyhead," she greeted from his right, pressing a kiss to the edge of his mouth. "Ew, morning breath." She pulled away and rummaged through her bag. "Here sweetie, have a Mento." She pressed the round mint to his lips. 

He opened his mouth, tongue snaking out to take the mint from her fingers. She grinned and moved to pull away. His fingers encircled her wrist, holding her still. Without breaking eye contact, he pressed a dry kiss to her palm. She giggled and he smiled against her hand. 

"Get a room!" called the driver, mock-glaring at them through the rear-view mirror.

They separated, sheepish, while the others around them laughed. 

Barney stretched once more and shook out his shirt. "So, what's this rally for again?"

Sean, seated right next to the hatch, was the one to respond. "We're protesting the use of bleach to whiten paper at the mill in Deferiet." 

"Bleach?" Barney furrowed his brow. "If they don't use bleach, what will they use?"

The whole car exchanged glances. "Shannon, you haven't talked about this much with him, have you?" A dark-haired guy with hazel eyes and a brown headband shot her an accusatory look.

Shannon shook her head. "We haven't had a lot of time to talk. I just kept putting it off." She shrugged loosely. "We've got like an hour. That's plenty of time, right?"

The others looked at each other. "Challenge accepted!" they chorused, and then proceeded to describe in detail the findings of the July Greenpeace reports documenting the effects of bleach in paper use. Barney nodded as they described increasing levels of pollution in the great lakes, fish genocides, and the ripple effect of a lack of environmental stewardship. Barney felt like his isolated, comfortable world had been blown open, and he climbed out of the car in a daze, listening as Lindsay ranted about the vortex of garbage in the Pacific. Sean handed him a tall sign that read, "BLEACH CLOTHES NOT PAPER" and pushed him towards the small crowd of students. Barney distantly noted people from Vassar and Syracuse huddled together in small clumps (well, a large mass in the case of Syracuse) all over the mill parking lot. 

Barney had just found Shannon when the squeal of feedback silenced the crowd. Someone with a megaphone cleared his throat and officially started the rally. Almost as one, signs rose in the air and people out on the edges of the crowd shook their posters, making sounds like stage thunder. Barney, in the thick of it, flexed his fingers around the wooden stake, raised his sign high, and shouted back the megaphone's chant. Shannon shot him a surprised look that morphed into something like approval, and he felt a hot flash spread through him.

Later that evening, when the mill security (and a couple of police officers) shooed them all away, Barney climbed back into the station wagon, face ruddy from sun and voice hoarse from shouting, and asked the others about Greenpeace, about what it stood for. For two hours, he listened as each person detailed some aspect of Greenpeace's initiatives. The rationales for fighting global warming, saving the whales, deforestation, world peace, nuclear disarmament, opposing genetically modified organisms, promoting sustainable agriculture, and protesting use of carcinogenic toxic chemicals were detailed to him, others adding support or detailing the best counterarguments. Barney listened, barely blinking as he watched the conversation get batted back and forth, from back seat to passenger and back. His world expanded suddenly, and he felt the need to do _something_. 

They pulled up to his apartment building. He and Shannon clambered out, Barney pausing before shutting the door to thank everyone and double-check the next meeting's time and place. When the car drove off, Shannon hooked an arm through his. 

"You like your new hemp bracelet?"

Barney fingered it carefully, the nondescript brown string and plain beads a strange weight on his wrist. "Yeah, I do." 

She smirked. "Sounds like you're really interested in this Greenpeace thing." 

"I am. I think I really am." He turned to her, hand covering hers. "Shannon, for the first time in my life, I want to _do_ something, help change the world." He laughed nervously. "I don't even know where to begin." 

She studied his expression carefully, then pulled her arm out from under his. Taking his face between her two hands, she met and held his gaze. "Barney Stinson, listen to me. You _can_ make a difference."

"But where do I start?"

Her head tiled to the side slightly, and a smile spread across her face. "With the first step, of course." She kissed him chastely, then pulled him towards the stairs, fingers twined with his.

**legato**

They weren't _doing_ anything when the words just slipped out of his mouth. 

"I love you," he blurted out suddenly, eyes meeting hers. 

Her fingers curled around the lip of the bowl of popcorn, cream-colored sweater - the same sweater she wore when he met her - making her eyes look bright in the glow of the television. Tom Cruise started shouting at Demi Moore, but Shannon hit the mute button and faced Barney. 

"What?"

"I love you," he repeated, looking down at his hands. His thumbs twiddled, and he flexed his fingers out of habit. 

Her smaller hands covered his. "Really?" 

He looked at her again, blonde waves framing her face and green eyes wide and waiting. "Yes," he breathed, hands rising to cup her face. "Absolutely I do." Leaning forward, he brushed his lips against hers and pulled back. 

She smiled and tilted her head until their foreheads touched. "I love you, too, Barney," she replied, hands fisting in his shirt. 

**a niente**

They were making out on Shannon's bed. Not that that was weird; they did that pretty regularly for privacy and because they deserved the time together. At least, that's what Shannon said every time she shut the door behind them. 

This time, though, felt different, like the air had changed somehow. Shannon straddled his lap, hands running along the planes of his chest beneath his sweater. Her nails scratched lightly, and each time he made a soft noise she grinned against his mouth. In turn, his hands had pushed her shirt above her bra, and his fingers idly toyed with her bra strap. 

Leaning back on her haunches, Shannon grabbed hold of the hem of her shirt and pulled it up and over her head. Barney, not missing a beat, tugged his own sweater off as well, tossing it aside unceremoniously. It landed with a dull _thwack_ , but Barney's hands were full with Shannon's hair and the soft skin of her waist. The hand cupping her head traced down the line of her body, skirting around the outer edge of her breast. Her own hands ran over his shoulder and chest. She giggled when he brushed a thumb across her breast, and he grinned wickedly.

"You're ticklish on your boob?"

"Shut up," she commanded, and then she pressed her tongue into his mouth. 

His hands resumed trailing downward, fingers curling into the waistband of her jeans and tugging, prying open the button and hurriedly lowering the zipper. Her teeth pulled on his lower lip, and her fingers began to undo his belt. He shifted his hips up and she tugged his jeans off of his legs. With a little help, he managed the same for her and threw the pair into a dark far corner of the room. Shannon lunged forward to kiss him messily, knees still straddling his hips. His hands roamed along her back, once more toying with the clasp of her bra. This time, though, he managed to pop it open, and Shannon was all too ready to shrug out of it and toss it aside. 

Leaning back forward, she kissed him deeply, tongue pressing against his. Carefully, she rolled to the side, her momentum causing him to follow until he was on top of her, the weight of him pressing her into the mattress. Barney's hips jerked against her leg, his erection a tent in his boxers. 

"Wait, wait," he managed, breaking the kiss. Shannon pressed kisses along the underside of his jaw, a march on his collarbone. "Shannon, hang on." 

"Come on, Barney. I'm ready." She blinked up at him from half-lowered lashes, hands on his shoulders. He groaned in frustration and crawled off of her, revealing her breasts and almost-naked body. 

"God, you're beautiful," he murmured, a hand running up and down her leg. 

"Barney, I'm really ready. I want to do this. With you." 

He reached for her hand and tugged until she sat upright. "Shannon, I love you. And, believe me, there's nothing I want more than this. But I want our first time together to be... _special_." He kissed her, soft and chaste. "Now isn't the time." 

She held his gaze for a long moment. "Okay," she said at last, and pulled him back down to lie beside her. "Okay," she repeated, and laced her fingers with his. 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Thank you," he murmured against her skin. She squeezed his fingers a little tighter. 

**animato**

Barney eyed the hand wrapped around his bicep warily. 

"Jason," he said slowly, eyes not moving from the fingers clutching onto his arm. "Are you seriously able to hold my arm in your hand?"

Jason grinned. "That's right, B. You might consider lifting weights." 

Barney shook his arm out of Jason's grip. "Whatever," he grumbled, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. 

Ruby elbowed him in the side. "C'mon. You're a skinny guy. It happens. So what if you have girl arms?"

Xander made a cut-off motion with his hand from behind Barney, who glared daggers at Ruby. "Thanks for that," he replied darkly. "So why am I here, again?"

"We needed an even number," Xander replied easily. 

"And you're the only person we can think of who's free on a Friday night," added Jason. 

"I have a girlfriend, you know."

"Who's out of town this weekend," Ruby pointed out.

"Again, thanks for reminding me." 

"Shut up, Barney. You're going to enjoy this."

"What're we doing, anyway? You guys skimped on the deets." 

Jason smirked. "Only the most awesome thing to have ever been invented."

"Yeah, _that's_ descriptive. Just tell me it isn't karaoke."

"Even if it were, that would be awesome. Between you and Ruby, we could take this show on the road." Jason started to rub his hands together in glee.

"Down, boy." Ruby gestured for Jason to calm down. "Right now I'm really glad we're behind the rest of our friends. You're being seriously creepy." 

"Definitely," Barney agreed. 

Xander bumped his shoulder into Barney's. "We're going laser tagging." 

Barney shot him a blank look. "Seriously?"

Xander nodded solemnly. "I never joke about laser tag." 

"Guys, isn't that for kids?" 

The three of them - and the eight others in front of them - stopped and stared in shock.

"Shut your blasphemous mouth!" Xander looked weirdly menacing on stairs, like he was a pirate ready to strike. 

"If you weren't the best jazz pianist I knew," Ruby murmured.

Jason just grinned wickedly and rubbed his hands together. 

Barney gulped. "Uh, just kidding?"

Forty minutes later, Barney dodged through a seeming maze of black walls trimmed in blacklight paint, laser-gun in hand. He had quickly lamented wearing the bright white tee under his sweatshirt as it made him a beacon of a target, but the tennis shoes had been a godsend. Quickly, he ducked under a protrusion and scanned the area. Two of his teammates were stalking down the ramp from the second floor. He could hear feet moving above him but wasn't sure if they were friend or foe. 

He braced himself for a moment, then leaped and rolled across the floor until he was behind a different obstruction. His heart thudded in his ears, thrumming with the bassline of the techno music playing in the round. The floorboards creaked under him, and Barney knew he had to move soon or risk being shot. 

He heard the rumble of several someones coming at him. Panicked, he tried to flatten himself against the wall to be inconspicuous, but realized too late that his vest's lights gave him away in the relative darkness. He braced himself to fire a few good shots before being stunned when three of his teammates rounded the corner. 

"Stop, I'm on your team!" Barney held up his hands and his gun, letting the light on his chest plate flash freely.

The other three lowered their laser guns and laughed. Jason braced his gun on his hip and smirked. "Having fun?" he asked wryly.

Barney wiped the sweat off of his brow with the back of his hand, his grin threatening to crack his face in half. "This is the greatest thing _ever_."

**forte**

"Encore! Encore!"

The band - expanded now, with a few more instruments and a vocalist - filed back onstage, wiping sweat off of their brows and grinning like madmen. 

"Okay, okay," Grace spoke into the mic, half-laughing. "We'll do one more. How about....MANTECA?" The audience cheered and hooted, and Grace backed away from the microphone to mute her resonating laugh.

"They seriously want more?" Barney muttered through his frozen smile, moving to take his place behind the piano.

"Just shut up and be awesome," Xander muttered back, covertly jabbing his elbow into Barney's side. "And heads up on the solo this time?"

"Fuck you," Barney returned, continuing to grin, stretching his hands over the piano keyboard. The audience was a dark blur of half-lit faces, all of them obscured by the spotlights directed at the performers onstage. 

"A-one, a-two," Jason counted. Xander clapped his sticks together and they all came in, chords and notes and scat lines meshing in the hot, still air. The crowd cheered and Grace moved forward. "Our pianist, Barney Stinson!"

And off his fingers flew, tumbling over keys and prying out dissonant harmonies as he banged on the keyboard with something approaching manic glee. The other instruments played their counter-line as his hands leap-frogged over one another, all the notes leaving him full to bursting. He finished his solo with a series of crashing, ascending chords and then only the drums kept time. 

The audience cheered and Grace moved toward the microphone again. "Our saxophonist, Ruby Edwards!" 

Ruby told them once that playing sax was like making love. It required skill, finesse, and a lot of emotion. Watching her as she ad libbed a solo she'd never had before, Barney had to give her credit. As she played a carefully playful solo, she swayed with the music. She pushed her instrument, playing high notes that bordered on squeaky before gently trilling her way down the scale. As she bottomed out and the audience applauded, Grace grabbed at the mic stand.

"Our trumpeter, Brad Messersmith!" 

Brad's trumpeting was quirky at its best, with squealing high notes that sounded like fingers sliding over glass. He trilled like he was blowing rasperries, runs going for a whole minute and it didn't look like he ever paused to breathe. Barney just barely managed to keep in tempo as he watched Brad's fingers move up and down on the valves of the trumpet in some crazy pattern his eyes were too slow to follow. He crescendoed into a last, squealing high note and pulled the instrument from his lips. He grinned as the audience cheered, bowing at the waist before retreating back. 

"Our flautist, Megan Jacobs!" 

Meg, Barney noted, opted for a more swinging solo, her notes mimicking a pendulum. Barney noticed the mischievous way she eyed the audience every time she paused to take a breath and laughed, running his hand down the length of the piano in a glissando as she slid down the scale on her flute. The crowd applauded, and one distinctly loud voice cried out, "All right, Meg!" causing her to duck her head and blush. 

"Our bassist, Jason Sanders!" Jason turned the latin jazz riff on its head and gave it a stronger funk-soul vibe. The tempo rolled way back, and the whole piece sounded a-little-more-afro-a-little-less-Cuban as Jason played with the whammy bar, giving the funk sound vibrato. Then, just as suddenly as the downshift, the tempo accelerated until it was back to the manic rush it was at before, and all of the brass reiterated the piece's familiar _dah-dada-dah-dada-da-da_ "chorus" line. 

"And, last but not least, Xander Thompkins on drums!"

All of the other instruments bowed out while Xander drummed furiously, his smile wide and bright in the spotlights. Barney felt every strike of the bass drum in his chest, ribs vibrating with the feeling of the heavy percussion. Xander ended his with a fierce high-hat/bass combination that left Barney shaky with adrenaline, ears ringing and bones humming. 

Grace made a circling motion with her hand as she walked up to the microphone. They repeated the theme from the first page, the _dada-da-da_ familiar after all of the solos. As they played, Grace half-shouted into the microphone, "I'm Grace Kim, and we're The Blue Notes. And this is..." She trailed off and raised her arms high above her head. 

The music swelled to a crescendo, then a quirky salsa coda and they all dropped their instruments to shout, "MANTECA!" The lights cut off as their voices echoed in the dark bar. The audience was stunned into silence for an infinite moment before bursting out into a dull roar that left Barney's ears muted and feeling like they were stuffed with cotton. The house lights came up and they all filed off of stage quickly.

Later, as they all sipped beers out back, jackets open in the front because they could still feel the stage lights, Jason raised his bottle, silencing the easy conversation. "To The Blue Notes," he said simply, tilting his bottle forward slightly.

"To The Blue Notes," the others echoed, clinking together the bottle necks. 

**al coda**

He fingered the linen paper tied into a neat scroll by the silky ribbon. "I can't believe it's over," he murmured. 

His mother sniffled and enveloped him a hug. "I'm so proud of you, baby." She pressed a warm, dry kiss to his cheek before pulling away and swiping at her eyes. "Oh, look at me, I'm a mess."

"No, no, you're beautiful," Barney insisted, James nodding his agreement. 

"Well, let's get a picture before my eyes turn puffy and gross." She sniffled but didn't bother hiding her smile.

They huddled together, Barney in his cap and gown in the middle, and posed for a portrait. 

"Say cheese!" Click.

_Today is the first day of the rest of your life._

**accarezzévole**

"Just pick one, Barney." 

" _Shannon_. Picking a piano isn't just a close-your-eyes-and-point thing." 

"But Barney, if you don't pick one soon, we're going to be late to meet Sami." 

"How do we know her, again?" 

"Sami Gonzales is my ex-roommate's boyfriend's sister's best friend's step-cousin's niece." 

Barney leveled a sarcastic stare at her. "That sounds like a line from _Spaceballs_." 

"Well, it's not." Shannon's patience was clearly running thin. "Barney, we're lucky she even hired us. We've got so much to do before we can head down to Nicaragua and no one's hiring temps right now with bioengineering degrees from Cornell." 

"Shannon, Shannon." He placed his hands on her shoulders. She glared at him, eyes steely in the bright lights of the store. "Relax, would you? Everything's going to be fine. We've got six months until Nicaragua - we'll manage until then. We'll worry about what comes after... _after_ , okay?" 

She held his gaze for a moment before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "You're right, you're right." She smiled softly at him. "I'm going to check out the bookstore next door. Pick one and come find me, okay?"

"Okay." He kissed her softly before letting her pull away and wander off, skirt rustling with every step she took. Turning around, he surveyed the two keyboards before him. He compared specs, weight, width, price, volume - everything. Then, he decided.

The first piano he bought wasn't a Steinway, a Yamaha, or even a Baldwin. It was a Casio electronic keyboard. It could mimic one hundred instruments, but Barney only really needed the one.

**pianissimo**

When he closed his eyes, sometimes, Barney could see his and Shannon's futures together. For some reason, it always looked like 8-mm reel home movies from the 60s, the only audible sound the quiet _click-click-click_ of the projector running. (Because, hello, he watched _The Wonder Years_ , too.) 

The scenes were always varied and eclectic. Shots of him and Shannon kissing at their beachside wedding, feeding each other slices of pineapple and trading flower garlands instead of rings. Images of them getting older and wiser, falling into the mold of so many of their classmates. They would huddle under blankets while counting stars, but they would also move into a little row house in Brooklyn, painted bright yellow and wholly theirs.

Barney sees their kids: blond-haired, light-eyed boys and girls. (Well, just the one of each.) Shannon would work and he'd stay at home with them, cooking meals and singing them to sleep, carting them to soccer practice and piano lessons and dance recitals. 

And then, when they were old and gray, he and Shannon would swing quietly in a porch swing as they watched the sun set on the bay, the colors splendid and indescribable, beyond the 8mm reel to display. 

Barney would open his eyes and would watch Shannon. He watched her serve coffee and chat with regular customers. Watched her as she tossed salad to go with his mother's fettuccini alfredo. Watched her as she washed dishes, arms elbow-deep into a sink filled with sudsy water. Watched her while she brushed her teeth and braided her long hair before bed. Watched her watching him as they fell asleep. 

Barney thought that he was one of the lucky few to know real, lasting happiness.

**cesura**

The world silenced for one horrible instant, and then everything was hollow. In one fell stroke, a thousand dreams shattered soundlessly.

**hemiola**

"What can you bring to Altrucel?"

Barney laughed and tugged at the sleeves of his ill-fitting suit. "No."

The man interviewing him looked puzzled. "No, Mr. Stinson?"

"No," he repeated, trying not to think about his newly short hair and the way his face felt clean-shaven. "I just got out of a four-year relationship, gave up my chance to do volunteer work in a Latin American nation, and I've got a degree in Marketing and Hospitality Management from Cornell University." He leaned back and crossed his arms, ignoring the way his jacket sleeves suddenly wouldn't extend past mid-forearm. "This isn't about what _I_ can do for _you_. This is about what _you_ can do for _me_." 

The man across the table from him regarded him coolly for a moment. "Well, Mr. Stinson, I think we're done here." 

Barney nodded and rose. "Thank you for the interview, sir. I hope one day we do have the opportunity to work together."

"Oh, we will," the other man replied, giving Barney's hand a firm shake. "On Monday morning."

Barney's expression turned blank and he continued shaking the other man's hand. "Excuse me?" he asked weakly, grip slackening.

"You begin work on Monday, Mr. Stinson. I suggest you invest in a good suit. In fact," he trailed off and scribbled an address on his pad and handed the sheet to Barney. "Look up this man here. Tell him Michael Scottes sent you. He'll assist in attiring you appropriately." 

Barney accepted the folded sheet with shaking hands. "Sir?"

"Yes, Mr. Stinson?"

"Why?"

The other man smiled humorlessly. "Because, Mr. Stinson, you're precisely the type of person we're looking for here at Altrucel."

"Cornell-educated?"

The other man's smile widened, though it continued to not reach his eyes. Barney suppressed a shiver. "Fearless."

**accelerando**

Those first few months are a liquor-tinged blur. He found himself the proud owner of a new suit for every day of the week, including weekends, and caring that his shoes match his belt and that his Ermenegildo Zegna loafers were polished to perfection. His co-workers - all of them marketing majors with a questionable moral compass - took him out drinking starting on Thursday ("Only pussies and analysts work on Fridays, Stinson!") and pushed liquors he's never even _heard of_ into his hands and chanted until he drank. 

He woke up Saturday mornings unsure of whose bed he was in or why his mouth tasted like something died inside, then looked beside him and found a woman more beautiful than he would have normally been comfortable approaching in a bar much less _sleeping with_ a year ago snoring lightly, back bare but blankets covering the rest. Sometimes they were blond, some brunette, some Asian or Hispanic or black or the once when she was Lebanese. (Hey, no one could say he wasn't an equal-opportunity cad.) He unfailingly dressed hurriedly and snuck out before the sun rose over the shortest of the tall buildings. Each time the so-called "walk of shame" felt easier until one day he felt nothing at all walking back to his apartment in wrinkled clothes and mussed hair. 

One Thursday, his coworkers grab him bodily out of his cubicle, chanting "Thirsty! Thursday!" and making guttural noises. Some part of him argued that he should be more affected by this behavior, but the majority of him felt indifferent, and he allowed himself to get swept up in the fervor. They dragged him to a karaoke bar, songbook half in Korean ("North Korea's the new USSR, the new China. You mark my words, Stinson!") and drinks bought by the bottle instead of the glass. One of them, Jake, handed him a scotch and soda, light on the soda, and placed it in his hands. 

Jake looked at him like he was a thousand miles away - and given how much weed the guy had been smoking in the bathroom lately, Barney would be willing to bet money Jake at least _felt_ that far - and told Barney that scotch was like a moon princess, to be loved and had in small portions and always, always respected. She wasn't to be used to toss back like shots or mixed into fruity, girly drinks. "No," he told Barney, eyes mysteriously hypnotizing, "she's a _keeper_. A man's woman." 

Barney blinked back at Jake blankly. "Oh. Kay." 

"Drink, man, and be merry, for tomorrow we are hung over." Jake raised his glass before knocking back the remaining vodka. 

Barney raised his own glass before tentatively sipping the amber liquid just barely covering the base of the glass. He let the sip roll on his tongue and swirl in his mouth for a moment before swallowing, the burn slow and comfortable all the way down. He gently rotated his wrist, letting the liquor swirl around the glass. 

"Well?"

Barney glanced at Jake before turning his gaze to the vortex of alcohol in his hand. "I think I'm in love," he replied simply.

Jake laughed, voice resonant and booming in its mirth. 

**sostenuto**

It was maybe 1:45 in the morning and he definitely should not have had the shots earlier because he definitely felt them now. The world was nice and fuzzy and warm, especially for New York this time of year. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar, relishing the feeling of (marginally) cooler air against his flushed skin. 

"Barney, that's totally your sex face!"

Ted and Marshall laughed, and he mock-glared at Lily, who looked cheerily guileless. Barney's hand cupped a glass of water, rotating it by degrees between his thumb and forefinger. 

Ted suddenly groaned, head in his hands. "Oh god, whose idea was it to do shots?" 

Marshall and Barney pointed at Lily. 

"We seriously need another girl around here," Lily grumbled. 

"Grumpy drunk!" Barney cried, pointing and laughing. 

Marshall raised an eyebrow. "Back off, dude."

"Aww, Marshmallow." She snuggled into his side, and he draped an arm around her shoulders. Across from them, Ted, propped his head up on one arm, elbow solidly on the tabletop. 

Barney surveyed them, half-asleep and mostly drunk, and smiled until his eyes blurred. 

**andante**

Barney walked into the bar last, smoothing down his tie as he made his way over to their usual booth. He casually stole a chair from another table along the way, neatly rotating it with his wrist and sliding into it in a single, smooth movement. While he didn't _like_ the bitch chair, he had no intention of staying seated for very long.

"I'm just saying," Ted insisted, a short nod all the acknowledgement he sent Barney's way before continuing. "If that were the case then there wouldn't be overwhelming evidence to the contrary." 

"Oh really? Name one of your so called 'contrary' evidence." Marshall even had airquotes. Barney felt a "lawyered" coming on. 

"Uh, how about the fact that she isn't even wearing a bra?"

"But they had electricity. And what about later, when she's held captive?" 

Ted waved his hand dismissively. "That doesn't prove anything." 

"What are we discussing?" Barney muttered at a very bored-looking Lily.

"If Princess Leia used bobby pins in her hair. Marshall says yes, Ted says no." 

"Oh," he exclaimed, comprehension coloring his voice. "Yeah, I'm just going to be over here now." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder and then rose out of his seat quickly. Lily shook her head and huffed a laugh. 

Ted and Marshall continued their argument, Marshall now discussing Padme Amidala's hairstyles and daring Ted to even pretend any of those could be accomplished without liberal use of hair spray and bobby pins, while Robin volunteered to act as a large Barbie doll for the duration of the argument. Barney leaned casually onto the bar and signaled Carl for his drink, Then, he turned to the pretty young woman with sandy hair beside him and grinned. 

"I couldn't help but notice you over here," he said by way of introduction. "My friends over there couldn't help but notice you, too." He tilted his chin at the foursome continuing their heated discussion, Ted's fingers tangled in Robin's hair as he tried to make Leia-buns with hands and ingenuity alone. 

The young woman flicked her eyes over to the booth, then turned to face Barney fully, elbow artfully perched on the bar and legs recrossing to emphasize the slit in her dress. "Those your friends there, in the booth?" 

Barney's eyes didn't waver from hers. "Yes, they are."


	3. Part Three

**decrescendo**

Life was quiet without Ted around.

Of course Ted dumps me the only time the Koreans don't need us in Pyongyang, he thought bitterly, tossing sharpened pencils into his ceiling tiles.

Each day was suddenly, unnecessarily bleak. He went out with some of his junior colleagues, nights spent drinking with men nearly a decade younger than him, and wow when did that age gap become almost a full one-oh? He stumbled into his apartment too tired for sex and too tired for thinking. Then, he woke the next morning and went through the motions.

He declined further invites to carousing and revelry, pride stung more than anything, and insisted that he had work to do. Nights were spent shredding documents and staring out his office window whilst trying to memorize an affidavit or read a report or track stock trends or any number of minutiae that he didn't really need to do.

Somewhere between the lines of the text and the rows and rows and rows of numbers, he sought solace.

**subito**

Barney's last thought before getting hit by the bus wasn't anything poetic like, "Why has no one ever loved me?" or even something as understandable as, "Why, God, why?"

No, Barney's last thought was something along the lines of, "Oh, shit."

**marcato**

Barney didn't believe in fate or destiny or anything like that, not really. But, he had to admit, there must have been some serendipity in him meeting Ted. And Marshall and Lily. And Robin.

  1. **Ted**  
  
Barney cursed Ted's lack of motivation to go to the gym. Even with Barney's arm slung across his shoulders, Ted kept trying to take a header down the stairs.  
  
"Tonight was _awesome_ ," Ted slurred, arm rising up and nearly clipping Barney's jaw. Barney managed to lean out of the way of the wayward fist. "So awesome. Everyone at the bar was awesome."  
  
"I'm glad you've come to your senses, Ted," Barney commented mildly, focused on getting Ted up the last flight of stairs. He'd worry about the key when they got to the goddamned door.  
  
"Barney! Man, you are the most awesome person ever. I mean, you, like, just awesome all over the place." Ted grinned at Barney and ran up the last length of the stairs. Barney just looked up at him forlornly, shoulders aching in protest and suit wrinkled from his efforts to get Ted home alive. "Race you!"  
  
"You already won," Barney retorted, half-jogging up the remaining steps. "Open the door, and I'll grab us some water. We can watch Empire or something."  
  
" _The Empire Strikes Back_ , my favorite movie!" Ted scrambled for his keys, let them into the apartment - Barney thanked whatever deity was listening that Lily and Marshall were out of town for the weekend - and made a squiggly beeline for the couch. "Empire!"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, wait a minute." Barney straightened and brushed the shoulders of his suit, trying to reshape the lines and creases. After fruitlessly brushing a few times, he gave up and reached for glasses to fill with ice and water. "Here," he said, crossing the room, handing Ted a sweating glass. "Drink."  
  
"Mmm, water." Ted drank half the glass in one draw. "Are we making popcorn?"  
  
"For what?" Barney nursed his glass slowly, having hardly had anything to drink.  
  
"For the movie, of course." Even drunk Ted sounded incredibly pretentious when he said that.  
  
"Oh. Yeah, no." Barney scanned the room. "Where is it again?"  
  
"Bookshelf, next to my _Star Trek_ books."  
  
"You read those?"  
  
"They were so good. Nazi Spock was the best."  
  
The opening crawl was halfway through when Ted leaned back on the sofa, Barney sprawled out beside him in sock-clad feet. When Han and Leia toured Lando's colony, Ted shifted. "Barney?"  
  
"Yes, Ted?"  
  
"You'd never sell me out to the Empire for money and a favorable trade treaty would you?"  
  
Barney paused. "No, Ted. I would not."  
  
Ted was silent for a moment, then turned his head to face Barney. "You're a good friend, Barney. I'm glad I met you."  
  
Barney felt his eyes prickle and his vision swam. He sniffed and pressed the palm of his hands to his eyes.  
  
"Are you okay?" Ted shot him a concerned look, eyes large in the low light.  
  
Barney nodded. "The betrayal always makes me cry."  

  2. **Marshall and Lily**  
  
Ted and his date left the bar, his hand hovering over the small of her back. Barney, Lily, and Marshall watched them go. Then, suddenly, Marshall stood and took the pitcher to the bar for a refill. Barney swirled his glass slowly and glanced up at Lily through his lashes once or twice.  
  
"Barney, do you ever want to get married?"  
  
"No," he replied immediately, letting the glass fall onto the table with a clunk. "Marriage is for other, less awesome people."  
  
Lily gave him an assessing look, head cocked to the side. "But haven't you ever wanted to get married?"  
  
There was a rushing sound, suspiciously like the _click-click-click_ of 8mm reels, images of a house cramped and filled with the things that make up a life, a large upright piano flush against the wall. He sat at the bench, beside him a small, fair-haired child. His hands slowly rolled up the keys, and a smaller hand mimicked him. Beyond them, a blonde woman, round with pregnancy, leaned against the doorjamb and watched the piano lesson, an expression of absolute contentment on her face.  
  
He blinked and the image and the sound was gone. Lily observed him with an odd expression.  
  
"No, I've never wanted to get married."  
  
Lily just looked at him with pity in her eyes. Barney focused on the bridge of her nose. She reached forward and patted his hand. "It's okay. One day you'll find someone that you want to spend the rest of your life with. You'll see."  
  
He shrugged loosely and took a long drink from his glass as Marshall slid into the booth, set the pitcher down with a clunk on the table, and slipped and arm around Lily's waist. For a moment, they watched each other and it was as though Barney's world slowed down. He watched them watch each other, the rest of the world gone for that one second. In the place where his heart used to be, he felt a twinge of _something_ , and was glad of the glass to hide his expression.  
  
The world sped back up again, and Marshall resumed telling them about what happened in his contract law lecture that day. Barney thumbed his glass gently and watched as Marshall directed a sidebar in the conversation solely to Lily, watched their expressions shift and change, and felt an ache in his chest.  
  
"You two," he murmured and brought his drink to his lips once more.  
  
The other two exchanged a glance and turned to him. "What's that supposed to mean?" Lily demanded, red hair making her look fearsome.  
  
"Nothing, nothing!" he insisted, and smiled warmly at their confused expressions. "Continue being lame."  

  3. **Robin**  
  
The room was gray when he woke, blinking blearily. The disorientation was familiar, as was the fact that he was naked. He breathed in deeply and shifted, vision blurred from sleep. He watched as the sight before him came into focus, wide patches of color turning into lines and shadows in the light of dawn.  
  
He faced the expanse of a woman's back, the dip in her waist a dark shadow. The blanket rested on her hip, sheets wrinkled and half-off the bed. Her dark hair was spread across the pillow, soft curls tangled into waves. A shoulder blade beckoned him, its lines clean and smooth against her skin. Unthinkingly, he reached out and ran the pad of his thumb along the ridge. The skin was soft and taut over the muscle and bone, dipping slightly under his touch. His hand rested on the curve of her waist for a moment, fingers pressing into the skin.  
  
He pulled his hand away, palm hovering over her. Crooking his index finger, he lightly ran it along her vertebrae, the bones unyielding to his touch. In his mind, he heard an ascending scale, a note for every vertebra passed. He reached the swells of her ass, three octaves completed, and rested his hand on her hip. His hand was warm against her skin. She shivered and turned, lying on her other shoulder and facing him.  
  
His hand reached out and brushed her hair out of her face, traced the line of her jaw, followed the ridge of her cheekbone, down the slope of her nose. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, her chin. Her mouth opened slightly and she sighed in her sleep.  
  
He pulled his hand away and rolled onto his back, chest aching. It felt like panic, only his heart didn't start to race. The room began to turn gold, and he fingered the edge of the sheets and waited, unsure of what to expect in the warm light of the morning.  
  
He felt her stir beside him and inhaled sharply. He saw her eyes flutter open and felt his chest tighten further.  
  
 _(He had done so well for this long, damn it all.)_



  
He didn't really believe in fate. But, then again, he got a hit by a bus, so perhaps it was time to reevaluate.

**staccato**

He held up his hands to the light and looked at them. They were awkward and stiff. He tried to wiggle his fingers and experienced a sharp shooting pain for his trouble.

"Barney, you're going to need to take it slow." Kevin Lambert was a mysteriously large figure, Barney noted, especially when you were sitting down. "Here, lay your left hand aside for a few minutes. We'll work on your right hand first."

Barney nodded and let his left hand fall to his side, palm up because it hurt less. His right hand stayed on the tray table, elbow propping up his hand.

Kevin reached behind him and handed Barney a slightly damp sponge. It rested in the palm of his hand, fingers curled slightly around its edges.

Barney raised an eyebrow."You want me to wash dishes?"

"Ha. No. Squeeze it and release, slowly. Like so." He took another sponge and demonstrated, hand curling around the soft object and releasing. "Think you can do that for me?"

Barney's brow furrowed. Carefully, he gently pulled his fingers together, middle joints bending before his knuckles folded. Every tendon and ligament in his hand screamed in protest, and he released, unable to curl his fingers fully. The sponge landed on the tray table, and Barney clenched his teeth to hold back the tears pricking at the back of his eyes.

Kevin picked up the yellow sponge quickly. "That was really good. Let's try it again, okay?"

For ten minutes, he squeezed a sponge. Each time, he managed to begin bending his knuckles before his muscles gave up and he released, the sponge falling from a shaking hand. He did little better with his left hand, and when Kevin took away the sponge he felt sore in both forearms.

"Okay, Barney. I'm going to ask that you not do this exercise tomorrow. Instead, do one of these five exercises for ten minutes at three hour intervals." He pushed a sheet of paper across the tray table towards him. "And take it easy. Your bones are healed, but all of your muscles are stiff and weak from being in the casts. It'll take some time to get your full flexibility back."

Barney nodded mutely and studied the series of diagrams displaying simple exercises to rehabilitate his hand.

"I'll see you the day after tomorrow, Barney. Take care."

Barney was alone.

Later, after the nurses had brought him an afternoon snack and after he had determined empirically that nothing at all was on TV, he clicked it off and fell back against his pillows, head tilted back slightly to stare at the ceiling. A melody came to him, something slow and sweet and strangely sad. He hummed it, softly at first, then louder. Instinctively, his hands rose to finger the notes in the air. He managed a bar before his muscles began to protest. He managed a mental page when his hand seized up and he couldn't move anymore without his entire hand hurting.

He looked at his hands, fingers curled in towards the center of his palm but unable to grip or straighten beyond that. For a long moment, he simply contemplated his hands, observed their lines, noted the length and thickness of each finger. His hands began to shake, mouth suddenly dry.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered. "Son of a bitch," he repeated, louder. "Son of a bitch!" His brow furrowed, gaze falling on the tray with the empty Jell-O cup beside him. "Son of a bitch!" he shouted, and extended his arm, sending the try flying to the floor with a clatter. "God damn it!"

A nurse rushed in. "Mr. Stinson, is everything all right?"

He glared at her. "No, everything is not all right," he replied, his voice far calmer than he felt. "I am _not_ fucking all right because I was _hit by a bus_ and everything is broken." His voice gradually gained volume until he was shouting. "So no, I am not at all okay. I am not 'all right,' I am the exact opposite of all right!" He finished, panting from the exertion.

The nurse just fixed him with a pitying look. Silently, she gathered the tray and the Jell-O cup and the spoon and walked out, shutting the door with a click behind her.

Barney's eyes darted around the room, the only sound his own labored breathing. Then, he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes and clenched his teeth and sniffed, swallowing angry tears.

A few escaped, but he brushed them away roughly, the backs of his hands burnt by the stubble dusting his cheeks.

**a tempo**

Barney adjusted his suit one last time, checking his reflection in the window. Tie smooth and flat, Windsor knot tidy. His suit was pressed, creases and seams perfect. His shoes shone like diamonds, laces pulled tight and tied into symmetrical bows. Tonight really _was_ going to be legendary, or he'd die trying.

Then, very deliberately, he pushed open the door to the bar and walked in.

"Barney!" All the regulars in the bar raised their mugs and bottles and glasses to him. He grinned and ducked his head, pleased by the attention. A handful of people came up to him to ask how he was doing, how the physical therapy was going, whether they could help him with anything (that one had been delivered by a very sultry - and leggy - Asian girl) as he made his way towards their regular booth.

Ted was sitting in a chair at the end of the table while Marshall and Lily cuddled on one side of the booth, leaving the only open space next to Robin. He slid into it very casually, trying not to touch her.

His plan of "not touching Robin" fell to pieces immediately as she scooted closer to him and gave him a one-armed hug. "Barney!"

"Welcome back, man," Ted greeted, tipping his beer bottle towards Barney.

Robin pushed glass of scotch towards him. "That's yours. Neat, the way you like it."

Barney smiled in thanks and raised his glass. "To our health."

Marshall shook his head. "To Barney. Even getting hit by a bus can't keep this guy down."

"Hear, hear," the others chorused and clinked glasses together.

Lily set her bottle down with a _thunk_. "So, what are you plans for tonight?"

Barney grinned wickedly. "I'm going to pick up six women and give them a night they'll never forget."

The others groaned. "Are you going to pick up all of these women at once?" Ted almost looked jealous. At least, to Barney.

"Yes I am, Theodore." Barney began to gesture with the hand holding the drink. "Tonight is the first night of the rest of my life. I'm going to do something so legendary that bros will be telling tales of it for years to come."

"More epic than riding the tricycle?"

"Absolutely. I call it..." He paused for dramatic effect. "The Sexcycle."

Lily buried her head in her hands. Marshall consoled her. Ted rolled his eyes and checked his cell. Robin hid a grin by taking a drink from her beer bottle.

"You watch, I'm gonna do it."

Lily shook her head. "Fine. Twenty says you can't."

"I'll take that bet," muttered Ted, pulling out a twenty. Marshall followed, and then Robin.

Barney smirked and then drained the rest of his glass. Standing, he surveyed the bar quickly before beelining towards a small group of twenty-somethings with martinis in hand. He slid into their midst and greeted them with a wide smile. The table watched as the women smiled brightly at him, postures shifting into something very alluring, and leaned towards him. He laughed, held up his hands, then held one of the girls' faces, chin between thumb and forefinger. She beamed as he spoke, revealing a dimple.

Soon enough, he was walking out of the bar with a large portion of the bar's young-hot-female populace around him.

The remaining four exchanged shocked glances.

"Holy mother of god," Marshall murmured.

"Guess the pot goes to him, after all," Robin managed, jaw hanging open.

"I wonder what he said," Lily said, face confused.

At the next table over, one of the girls Barney had been near slid into the booth and exclaimed, "Did you guys see that recruiter for _America's Next Top Model_? Wow, was he cute or what?"

**col pugno**

Lily made some joke about him being gross and he laughed it off with the rest of them. If he was a little quieter after that or a little more focused on his drink, well, no one really noticed and he preferred it that way.

Later that night, after the others had departed, he sat himself down at the bar piano in the far corner, world tilting slightly. He plinked out some lighter songs, ragtime pieces he had learned back at Cornell to fill time between acts at The Gourd for tips he kept. Some jackass at the bar drunkenly called out, "Piano Man!" eliciting chuckles from the crowd. Barney's fingers rolled down the keyboard. Then, lifting his left hand, he segued into the opening, and a number of patrons turned in their chairs to watch him.

"It's nine o' clock on a Saturday," he sang quietly, some of the other patrons grinning when they realized he was actually playing the drunken request. The man who called out the title smiled and raised his glass to Barney. "The regular crowd shuffles in." Carl stopped wiping down the bar to watch Barney. "There's an old man sitting next to me making love to his tonic and gin," Barney continued, torso swaying in time with the music. The piano continued, chords changing keys to one, then two steps higher and building to a crescendo. His left hand continued its steady walking bassline, and he nodded along to it. The bar seemed to collectively take in a breath and Barney suddenly found himself the leader of an impromptu sing-along.

"Sing us a song, piano man," the bar warbled, and Barney played more enthusiastically. As the song progressed, Barney started making substitutions, like Carl's name for John at the bar, and his own name for Bill. The patrons raised their glasses and bottles and swayed them back and forth in 3/4 time, and they occasionally brought their hands down to take a drink between verses. Carl laughed and shook his head, then pulled out an ice bucket and passed it around the bar.

As the song finished, the bar cheered and clapped. When the sound died down, Barney started on a new song, a little heavier but more whimsical with its roll and flow, a plinky jazz piece he felt suited the mood at two-thirty. The bar returned to a dull roar, patrons chatting with each other, hitting on each other, or ordering drinks. Barney tuned them out, concentrating on getting the jarring chords just right. His hands moved lightly across the keyboard, but every chord and note was struck with force. On the runs, his fingers looked like they were simply skipping down the piano. As the piece came to a close, his left hand crossed over his right to catch an upper octave's notes.

Then, a bar or two later, his right hand practically leap-frogged up the octaves, and he held the sustaining pedal for a moment, letting the high notes ring in the air, before his left hand came down on the lowest octave, hand curled into a fist, and rolled down the pitches with his knuckles.

He lowered the cover on the piano and propped his head up on his hand, elbow solidly placed on the cover. From his perch, he surveyed the bar quietly, watching women leave with men, men leave with women, and every combination in between, until Carl rang the bell for last call. Rising, he brushed out his suit with his hands, checking for wrinkles, and walked out onto the street, head and eyes clear.

**portamento**

Lily informed him in her best I'm-a-teacher voice that _still_ made him want to sit up straight in his chair that Thanksgiving was happening at her and Marshall's apartment this year. Glaring at Robin, Ted, and Barney, she added that everyone was expected to bring a dish to dinner, and a bottle of liquor didn't count as a dish.

So Barney called James and asked if he could play Cooking Coach while Barney baked a pie. James laughed and rattled off a list of ingredients and supplies for pie-making.

Later, Barney stood in his kitchen, apron tied firmly over slacks and his lucky shirt, and surveyed his island countertop. Measuring cups, mixing spoons, pie plates, eggs and sugar and butter and jars of fruit filling cluttered the surface while Barney fiddled with the Bluetooth headset in his ear.

"James? Can you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, little brother. So, I'll talk you through this. If something goes wrong, take a picture and send it to me."

Barney grimaced. "You're sure I can't just buy a pie?"

"You could, but you used to like helping me bake cookies, remember?"

Barney smiled and wished James was beside him and that they were in their mother's kitchen. "Yeah, I do. Okay, what's first?"

Three hours (and one failed pie) later, Barney carefully pulled out a perfect cherry pie out from his over. "Oh my god," he muttered as he gently set the pie on the cooling rack. Turning, he quickly closed the oven back up and checked to make sure it was off.

"Well? How's it look?"

"Golden-brown on top, the fruit looks like it's glazed over and _it's perfect_."

Barney could hear James smirking. "Hopefully it tastes as good as it looks. You didn't mix up the sugar and the salt, did you?"

"Har, har, no. Not after the first time." Barney untied his apron and pushed it through the handle on his fridge door, then collapsed onto a sofa cushion. "Thanks for the baking lesson."

"No problem. In a few more weeks, you could open up your own delicatessen."

Barney paused. "I _would_ be able to meet lots of women..."

"And that's my cue to hang up. I'll call you in a few days, okay?"

"I'll be around. Bye, James."

"Bye, Barney."

Thanksgiving rolled around, and Barney showed up at Lily and Marshall's thankful that the sewage treatment plant was off this whole week. Marshall opened the door and gasped when he saw Barney carrying two pies. "Pie!" he exclaimed, and ushered Barney into the apartment. "Barney brought pie!"

Robin grinned and saluted with her very large glass of red wine from the couch. Beside her, Ted immediately perked up. "Awesome," he added, grinning.

Lily was a cooking machine, her hair tied back and her apron cinched almost painfully tight. She grinned at the pies but then quickly disappeared to check the turkey.

"Robin brought rolls and lots of wine, Ted brought a salad, and I made the mashed potatoes already."

"Awesome," Barney replied and fell into a seat. "Pass me the bottle."

Hours later, when the game was over and the food was finished, they sat around a cleared table and continued to laugh and chat and drink, and the wine bottle in the center of the table never seemed to run dry.

He leaned back and sighed, full and warm from the alcohol and the overeating. He absently rubbed his stomach while surveying the group around him. Marshall and Ted were tag-team telling some story to Robin and every few minutes Lily would interject a correction. All of this resulted in Robin simply laughing any time one of them spoke.

Maybe he was a little bit (a lot a bit) drunk, but suddenly he saw that Robin had picked up some of Lily's inflections and that a drunken Marshall spouted random factoids he got from Ted, and that Ted's "I'm so innocent" look was familiar at the edges. They were all very distinct, but with the buzz of alcohol and the familiarity of closeness, well, their edges blurred together. And Barney could live with that. He took another drink of his wine and closed his eyes, smiling.

Someone poked his cheek. "I think he's dead," Robin announced.

"i think you're drunk," he replied, not opening his eyes.

Robin giggled. "You're the drunk. Drunky."

Marshall smirked, though he was starting to sway a bit. "Drunky. From druncatus, Latin for being drunk."

"Actually, that's--"

"Shut up, Ted," they chorused.

Barney's smile widened ever so slightly.

**doloroso**

He felt like he was moving in circles, every choice a left turn in a world of left turns.

Most nights he would stay up with Robin at McLaren's until last call and she had to go to work and he had to get his minimum sleep to function. (He had once told her that the North Koreans had provided him with a special treatment that meant he slept less than the average human and woke up more energized. The much-less-glamorous truth was that college had trained him well for this.)

He trashed every guy she dated over scotch-and-soda until she was laughing so hard she couldn't remember their names to tell him to be nice, and every night he walked into his apartment exhausted and emotionally drained. Some nights he mustered the wherewithal to bring home with him a lovely twenty-something in something sparkly like a gold lamé dress. Usually, he was sober enough to remember not to hit on the brunettes.

But every Thursday night he was at McLaren's until last call, mocking whatever the guy was this time around for whatever crazy flaw he had this time around. He wondered if his laugh was starting to sound hollow to her ears, and he drained his glass quickly to chase the thought away.

"Maybe it's me, maybe there's just something wrong with me," she groused, frustrated by the slim pickings in the wee hours before Carl busted out the big hand bell.

"Perish the thought!" he retorted.

She shot him a strange look.

"What?"

She shook her head and played with the olives on the toothpick of her martini. "Nothing, you're just a strange one."

He scoffed. "Strange is for losers. I'm _eccentric_."

"Yeah, let's go with that," she replied, nodding. "You really think it's not me?"

"Pssh, please." He waved a hand dismissively. "Even I have trouble landing a quality young woman at this time of night."

"Yeah, but you're not looking for a quality young woman, you just want a lay."

Barney felt his smile fall and his brow furrow. "There's more to it than that," he retorted quietly, swirling the ice cubes in his lowball glass. "I don't sleep with _anyone_ ," he added, setting the glass down on the table.

"Barney, I'm sorry, that came out all wrong." Robin appeared genuinely distressed by his behavior. Absently, he noted that he hadn't even needed to use _delightful_ this time.

He smoothed down his tie and managed a genuine-enough smile. "No problem." She appeared relieved for a moment before turning her attention back onto the martini glass, toothpick and speared olives floating listlessly. Carefully, she pulled them out of the glass. He, meanwhile, surveyed the bar for a potential temporary companion.

"Do you want my olives?" He turned back to Robin, who held out the fished-out toothpick towards him, olives speared on the end.

"What?"

"I don't like olives," she replied patiently, hand steady. "Do you want mine?"

He held her gaze for a moment, eyes flicking back and forth between the outstretched toothpick and her unwavering gaze. Then, gently, he wrapped a hand around her wrist and guided her hand towards his mouth. Then, slowly, he pulled the olives off of the toothpick with his teeth. He grinned when they were safely inside of his mouth and released her wrist. She laughed, a little stunned he had dared that. To be honest, so was he.

"You've got really steady hands, Scherbatsky," he deflected, chewing thoughtfully. "I should teach you some card tricks, a little sleight of hand."

"No," she refused flatly.

"Come on! It'll be fun."

She laughed, full and rich, and shook her head. "No way. Nyet. Nein. Non."

"English, Russian, German, and French, nice. I sense a Canada theme." She rolled her eyes. He pressed on. "At least it wasn't sixteen this time."

She reached forward and punched him in the arm. "Shut up!"

He grinned over the rim of his glass.

**lamentoso**

He wondered, more often than not, if every turn his life has taken was the wrong one.

Then, he sat at McLaren's with the others, relaxed while Marshall and Robin had a Great-White-North-off and Ted and Lily kept exchanging amused or confused glances, and wondered if maybe the right turns made up for all of the wrong ones.

**sforzando**

The sunlight streaming in through his window made him blink blearily and curse. He rolled over, turning his back to the light, and settled into the pillow with a sigh. He heard his sigh echoed and felt the bed shift, and his eyes snapped open. Beside him was a woman, naked, lying on her stomach on the mattress, head turned away from him. Her brown curls were splayed out over her shoulder, and a long leg peeked out from under the duvet. He propped himself up on an elbow and let his eyes roamed over her back, noting the distinct lack of a tattoo on her lower back. Tentatively, he reached out and ran a hand from her shoulder blades to her hips, touch feather-light. He felt soft skin and downy hairs and recoiled.

The woman, meanwhile, stirred slightly under his touch, turning her head toward him. Her hair blocked her features. Barney swore in his mind and reached out and carefully pushed curl after curl aside. First, a set of full lips and a familiar curve of the jawline. Then, a long straight nose that twitched as her hair was moved aside. Finally, long, dark lashes and closed eyes. His hand traced her jawline when he realized who it was beside him.

The touch made her stir, and her eyes blinked open slowly.

"Hey," he greeted quietly, a smile tugging at his lips and voice a puff of air.

"Hi," she mouthed in return, body turning as she raised an arm towards him. Her hand tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck as she pulled him towards her for a kiss. His body moved forward, weight shifting to his elbows and knees as he covered her and deepened the kiss.

"I've wanted to do this for a long time," he murmured against her lips, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

"I know," she replied simply before pressing her mouth to his again, tongue pushing into his mouth. One of her legs came up and hooked around his hip, toes rubbing against his calf. He laughed into her mouth and broke the kiss, nose pressed into the junction of her neck and shoulder. "What is it?" she asked, laughter in the background of her voice as she ran her foot up and down his calf again.

"Stop it," he demanded, nipping at her pulsepoint before placing a march of kisses along her collarbone to her shoulder, where he left a wet, openmouthed kiss.

"You mean this?" She did it again and he convulsed in laughter and fell onto his side, forehead pressed to her shoulder. "The great Barney Stinson, ticklish."

"Scherbatsky. You think I'm great?" His left hand crept up and took her breast in his hand, the pad of his thumb rubbing back and forth across her nipple.

"Don't let it go to your head," she retorted, sighing contentedly. "That feels nice."

"This?" He massaged her breast until the nipple stood tight and erect, then switched to her other breast. Her hand came up to play with the abandoned breast, rubbing and squeezing in time with him.

"Yeah," she said, flashing him a smile. Her other hand gently skimmed up and down her stomach.

When her other nipple was equally tight and pronounced, he pulled his hand away. The hand skimming along her abdomen took its place, and Barney watched transfixed as she continued to massage her breasts. Then, he rose and pulled her hands away from herself, pinning her to the mattress at her wrists. She smirked up at him, leg rising to hook around his hip. He shook his head and kissed her, hands shifting from her wrists to the mattress.

"What would you like?"

She laughed, head pressing into the mattress. "What is this? A sex restaurant?"

"A sextaurant? Pssh, no. Those are illegal under New York health codes."

She shot him a baffled look.

He sighed and balanced his weight on his right hand. With his left, he brushed a curl of her hair behind her ear. "I want to make you happy. What would you like me to do?"

She pressed a kiss against his mouth. "I _am_ happy," she declared, eyes not wavering from his. Then, she blinked and her expression turned wicked. "But, if you're taking orders..."

"Name it." He propped himself back up on both elbows, a wicked grin to match her own spreading across her features.

"How about that thing you like that I like?" Her eyes flicked down and then back to his face.

He kissed her soundly, then crawled down her body, placing openmouthed kisses on each breast as he passed and nipping at each hip. When he reached the opening of her sex, he stopped. One hand reached up to cup her ass, giving it a firm squeeze before pushing her legs open and blowing a cool breath against her skin. She shivered, making her breasts shake enticingly. Gently, he slid a finger between the folds of her sex, thumb rubbing against her clitoris. She sighed in pleasure, abdominal muscles clenching briefly.

"You're so wet," he muttered, sliding another finger into her. "We haven't even been awake that long."

"You're rock-hard, don't pretend you're not."

He laughed and crooked the two fingers inside of her while continuing to rub circles around her clit. Her hips bucked and she made a muffled sound.

"You okay up there?"

"Shut up, shut up," she bit out, fingers clenching and unclenching in the sheets.

"Should I stop?" He made another come-hither gesture inside of her.

"No," she replied firmly, muscles tense and shaking.

In lieu of replying, he gently inserted a third finger into her. Her head bent back, pressing into the mattress as far as she could. Her back arched slightly. His thumb ran across her clit instead of just circling around it, and her body spasmed. He continued to run circles around her clitoris, fingers flexing gently inside of her every few cycles.

Her hips bucked again, and he felt fingers tangle in his hair before he found himself pulled up. He pulled his hand out of her fast enough to catch himself from falling on top of her. "Cock. Inside. Now," she demanded, teeth scraping over her bottom lip. She kissed him fiercely, and he obliged, head of his dick pressing against her sex for a moment before entering her. She spread her legs wider to take in his length, making small gasping noises every time he shifted his hips.

When he was inside of her fully, he stopped and kissed her, long and slow and deep. "Be loud," he murmured into her ear, teeth tugging on her lobe gently. He felt her smile against his cheek and nod slightly. Then, he started thrusting, long languid strokes that made her hips shift with each snap of his own. Her head tilted back, and her mouth fell open, a loud groan passing her lips. He thrust into her again, more powerfully, and she groaned louder.

"Faster," she added, panting. "Go faster."

His thrusts grew more rapid, making up in frequency what they lost in power. Her nails dug into the skin of his upper arms, back arching, and moans louder and more frequent. He felt his orgasm coming on and pushed her hand between them. Understanding, she began to toy with her clitoris, nails scraping against his abdomen from time to time. Her moans grew higher-pitched and breathier. She paused to breathe, and when she opened her mouth again, a horrible noise filled the air.

Barney's eyes snapped open and his hand smacked the snooze button on his alarm clock reflexively. He looked around his otherwise empty room, other hand fisted in the sheets and erection tenting his boxers uncomfortably.

He groaned and dropped his head back on the pillow. "Fuck," he muttered, and wrapped a hand around his cock.

**glissando**

Days melted into weeks and then months, and Ted met this wonderful woman with dark hair and big, bright eyes who looked at him the way he looked at her when no one but Barney was watching, and Barney decided maybe it was time to retire Ted as a wingman.

"Ted," he declared, scotch held high in the air. "I'm retiring you as my wingman." He took a long sip of his drink and set down the glass on the table with a loud _thunk_.

Ted froze, bottle halfway to his lips. "Wait, that's it? No celebration, no Lusty Leopard visit, no tickets to Foxy Boxing. Just, 'you're retired!' and I'm out?"

Barney nodded, nonplussed by Ted's incredulity. "That's it."

Ted exchanged glances with the others, who looked equally stunned. "Okay, then. To my retirement!" The others toasted, Barney included, and Ted bought all of them a round (or three, as Ted got drunk fast and Marshall kept tricking him into providing later rounds).

Later, when Lily and Marshall had left and Ted had stumbled upstairs, Robin shifted in her seat across from Barney. "You okay?"

"Hmm? Yeah, I'm great. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just fired your wingman."

Barney shook his head. "Nah, I just unclipped the collar."

She paused. "What?"

He glanced at the door that Ted had just stumbled through. "He's going to marry that girl."

Robin sat back in the booth. "How do you know?"

"I'm not blind or stupid. I can see the writing on the wall." He shrugged loosely. "Besides, I'm getting old. Maybe I don't need a wingman anymore!"

She covered one of his hands with hers. "Still. I'm sorry."

He stared at their layered hands for a moment. Then, he turned his hand over so that their hands were palm to palm, and gave hers a slight squeeze, thumb running over her knuckles. "Thank you."

**grandioso**

Barney was never very good at the big romantic gesture - that was Ted's thing. So, instead, when he decided that enough time had passed, he took her to a laser tag tournament.

"Barney, _what_ are we doing here?" Robin clipped on her chest plate and checked her weapon, shooting him a glare every few moments.

"Calm down, Scherbatsky. We need you fierce in the game, not in the warm-up room."

"I mean it. This is a tournament full of junior high schoolers." She threw her hands up in the hair and blew out a frustrated breath, causing her bangs to flutter up. Barney thought she looked adorable. "I saw that scoreboard when you got banned from that other place. You don't need me."

"First, _shh_ , I can't play if I'm banned from an arcade. Second, just because I can stomp all over these kids in my sleep doesn't mean I can't spend the afternoon with one of my best friends."

Robin's expression softened.

Barney continued. "Plus, you're super hot."

"Damn straight." She cocked her gun. "All right. Let's kick some ass."

Four hours later, they huddled behind a low wall painted black with blacklight-friendly graffiti scrawled all over it talking strategy.

"There's two of those little bastards around the corner," Barney said, drawing their relative positions into the air.

Her brow furrowed. "I can take 'em out, but I'll need you to distract them. But if you do that, you open yourself up to getting hit."

"Then shoot fast, Scherbatsky."

"Are you serious?" She looked at him like he was crazy, eyes bright and pale.

"I never joke about laser tag," he replied seriously, blue eyes bright in the blacklight.

"Okay, then on three. One, two, three!" She leaped up over the low wall just as he rolled forward, trying to get behind another obstruction. The zitty teens had just raised their guns to fire on Barney when their chest plates buzzed, indicating they were hit. Robin blew on the end of her laser gun dramatically while Barney stood and dusted off his clothes.

"We did it!" he cried, raising his hand in a high five.

"What are you doing?! There's like seven more of these little gnomes!" She grabbed his raised hand and dragged him into the next area.

When the round was over, they burst into the briefing room, high on adrenaline and victory. They stripped off the laser tag vests and half-jogged to the results board. The loading screen flashed repetitively as Barney and Robin and about 70 pre-teens impatiently watched the screen load.

The loading screen blinked black for a moment, and the crowd silenced suddenly. Then, the red/blue split screen of the results appeared, blank, before being filled in with numbers. The group was silent, interpreting the stats.

Barney turned to Robin, the realization dawning on him just as it was on the others. "We won!" The crowd exploded into noise, some cheers, some jeers, and some groans of disappointment.

Robin's face morphed into something resembling manic glee. "We won? We won!" She sprang forward and hugged him tightly.

He pulled back, grinning. "We won!" He shook her shoulders a little, eyes searching her face, and he inhaled sharply. "God, I love you," he breathed and kissed her.

She tasted like salt and warmth and softness, and he lost himself in the feeling until he realized what had just happened was actually happening. He pulled back roughly. "Um. I mean, I love you for helping me win! Yeah, that's it."

Robin just looked gobsmacked.

"Robin?"

"Team Awesome, please come up and accept your trophy," a voice called, megaphone distorting the sound.

She pushed him towards the voice. "Go, claim your trophy."

He shook his head. " _Our_ trophy," he corrected, and grabbed her hand.

She looked pained. "Barney, I _can't_ \--" He pressed a finger to her lips, their hands still intertwined.

"It's just a trophy," he said gently. "Accept it with me. You earned it, too." She nodded, and he smiled.

Then, he pushed his way through the throng of middle-schoolers, her hand warm in his.

**largo**

He found her plinking out a melody on the piano, the eighty-eight keys gleaming before her as she hunched over the keyboard, stiff and awkward fingers trying to find the right note next in the sequence.

"What are you doing?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled. "I'm trying to remember the song. It goes, dun dun dun. Da da da da da da." Her head drifted from side to side with the song. She hummed a few more bars of the piece before staring up at him expectantly.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Heart and Soul. You're really trying to figure out Heart and Soul."

"Would you just shut up and teach me?"

He grinned and slid onto the bench beside her, hands poised over the lower end of the keyboard. "Follow me, and do exactly what I do." She nodded, straightening her posture to match his. He flashed her a smile and she arched an eyebrow. "Right hand out, fingers spread. The song starts on F, so this--" he pulled her middle finger onto the F key, and placed his own hand over hers. "This key right here. You ready?"

She nodded, a determined expression on her face.

Gently, he pressed down on her fingers, humming along under his breath. Her fingers stumbled to keep up with him. The backs of her hands were cool, and the feeling of her pressed along his side was both familiar and unfamiliar. "Heart and soul," he sang softly, voice low and lips right by her ear. He continued humming along with the piano, her long fingers catching up with his. He felt a shiver run down her spine, a gradual flutter of muscles along her back. He smirked slightly against the shell of her ear as the last notes of the chorus rang out in the room.

Robin glanced at him sidelong, lashes lifting as she peered at him. "Once more time," she demanded, posture straightening. He nodded, flexed his fingers over hers, and started the pattern again. This time, however, she hummed along with the piano, fingers picking up the rhythm and the progression of the notes. Her index finger slipped once on the B-flat key. By the end of the second chorus, he hands merely covered her.

"Perfect," he murmured, lips buzzing against her skin. "Think you could manage on your own?"

"Only if you go slow."

"That's what she said," he replied, pulling away from her. Suddenly, his side felt cold. He ignored it and shifted until he was before the lower octaves. "I'll play the left hands. You ready?"

"That's what he said."

He beamed at her. "Nice." He placed his hands over the chords and rolled up the pitches until they hummed in the air and in his skin. Robin watched him silently, expression unreadable. He glanced at her and nodded at the keyboard. She turned her attention to the keys, thumb pressing gently on the F key two octaves above his right hand. Barney started the boom-de-ya-da intro, chords loud and sure. She nodded along to the music and then entered, humming along to the song. He smiled and watched her watching the keyboard, concentration fully occupied by the piano. He played his chords without looking.

When the song finished, she turned to him, smiling broadly. "We did it!"

He nodded, half-laughing at her joy. "We did," he replied simply. She didn't look away, and he tilted his head to the side. "Can I play something for you?"

She nodded, pulling her hands back from the keyboard and shifting to the edge of the piano bench. He moved until he was centered in relation to the keyboard. He spread his hands across the black and white keys, taking a deep breath. Then, positioning his fingers, he began to play.

The opening chords were jazzy, slow and languid and dark on the left hand. "If I didn't care," he sang softly over high, heavy chords. Robin's breath caught audibly. "More than words can say," he continued, a quirky short run played out lightly with his right hand, left holding low chords. "If I didn't care, would I feel this way?"

Robin sat perfectly still beside him, eyes flicking between his face and his hands.

"If this isn't love, then why do I thrill?" He continued, placing words before he laid out the chords. "What makes my head go round and round while my heart stands still?" His voice cracked slightly in the line.

The song continued, the lyrics and the notes slow and sad. Barney's attention didn't waver from the keyboard, eyes focused and hands sure as they maneuvered trills and tricky rhythms and ascending lines.

"Would all this be true if I didn't care for you," he finished, ending an ascending line with a trill, the low left hand chord ringing until it buzzed. He pulled his hands back from the keyboard and lifted his foot off of the pedal. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her face. Her expression was inscrutable.

He braced himself and turned to her. "Robin, I--" He didn't get to finish.

She grabbed him by the lapels and kissed him soundly.

**tacet**

He told her to skip lunch, that they were going to have a picnic. She arched an eyebrow and asked him if he minded getting grass stains on his suit. Cheerily, he held up the red-checkered blanket and told her it had been taken care of.

She left the studio at eleven thirty and met him at the west entrance to Central Park. They wandered along the cement paths, chatting quietly about their mornings. Robin detailed just how perfect her guest's breasts had been, and Barney self-censored as he told her about the very cool, very top secret things he had done that morning. She carried the blanket in her arms, he held the picnic basket in his.

They found a suitably open, sunny place and laid out the blanket. Robin made fun of him for not thinking outside of the box, and he threatened to not let her have any of James's cookies.

They split sandwiches and plates of chips and bowls of potato salad. In the far corner, a plate covered in tinfoil warmed in the sunlight. After the crumbs were brushed away, he pulled back the aluminum foil and offered her the plate. She pulled the topmost cookie out and bit into it, moaning with pleasure as it melted in her mouth. She exclaimed at their warmth, and he informed her that they were better cold. She kicked him in the shin, he exaggerated the injury, and she pressed a large piece of cookie into his mouth to shut him up.

They laid back on the blanket and watched the clouds parading past, occasionally calling out what it was. Robin swore one was a unicorn, but Barney insisted it was Ted's latest skyscraper design. They laughed at the outrageous, argued over whether some were ducks or elephants, and moved closer together to accurately indicate exactly which cloud was shaped as a gopher or a wombat or a monster truck.

Eventually, they fell into silence, the air between them calm and charged with something that speaking couldn't break. Gently, she reached over and twined her fingers with his, lacing them. After a moment, she sat up and tugged on his arm. He sat up as well, a questioning look skittering across his features. Her other hand rose up, fingers feather-light at the hinge of his jaw, and pressed a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips. She pulled back, smiling, and touched her forehead to his, their twined hands between them.

They sat like that for a long time, in silence. Everything now was just beyond words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In piano music, "portamento" is a musical technique where the notes are slurred together in a tie but each note is distinct. Thus, there's a feeling where the notes almost-but-don't blend together, but aren't quite distinct in and of themselves, either.
> 
> 2\. "Sing us a song, you're the piano man! Sing us a song tonight. Well we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feeling alright." From "Piano Man," by Billy Joel.
> 
> 3\. For the record, I never have and likely never will play the piano with any real skill. I can play scales (badly) and use the piano to sightread (badly) vocal lines in music, but actually playing anything will forever elude me.
> 
> 4\. Mrs. Frey was my high school guidance counselor, haha. Various people in Barney's life are based on (and often named after) people I've known. Write what (or whom) you know, right?
> 
> 5\. Hospitality management majors at Cornell _are_ called "hotelies" and do actually need to work in the on-campus Statler. They also learn how to fold napkins and memorize menus. I kid you not.
> 
> 6\. The JAM Performance Space (or P-space) is a music-themed housing community on Cornell's campus. JAM stands for Just About Music, and it's home to students who have a real love for music and musicianship. Members may live in Low Rise 9 or out-of-house. Anecdotal evidence suggests that practicing that occurs here may be heard throughout the dorm.
> 
> 7\. I went with the assumption that Barney is roughly 34 in 2009, which puts him in college somewhere between 1992 and 1997, give or take a year. In "legato," Barney is 20 and it is about 1994. He and Shannon are watching a VHS tape of _A Few Good Men_. (As an aside: it was _really hard_ to not give everyone cell phones in what would have been 1996. Like, really hard!)
> 
> 7b. Also noteworthy: while the Greenpeace rally that Barney and Shannon attend did not actually happen, the issue of paper mills using bleach was large in the mid-90s. Reports were published in the summer of 1994 discussing the use (and effects) of bleach to whiten paper, and some material discussed hydrogen peroxide as a better alternative. Also, all of the topics that the Greenpeace members mention are actually major initiatives by Greenpeace. The paper mill mentioned _is_ a real paper mill located about two hours northeast of Ithaca, New York where Cornell's campus is situated. Finally, the universities mentioned as being present at the rally are universities located near Cornell.
> 
> 8\. Analysts, in most business firms (such as Goldman-Sachs or J.P. Morgan) are the bottom rung of the corporate ladder. I'm assuming that Altrucel has other purely business departments such as Marketing and Sales, Accounting, etc. Barney's most logical major is a marketing-oriented one; he meets with clients - important clients - and is likely a VP of Marketing within the company. He also seems to sit in on important meetings involving major company decisions. 
> 
> 9\. Barney's physical therapy involves doing the exercises described in [this video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DayQeLkc710). The sheet that Kevin hands him is based on [this slideshow](http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/arthritis/AR00030) from the Mayo Clinic.
> 
> 12\. I used [this sheet music](http://www.mediafire.com/?sharekey=c07b2a9010432fdadd8b33b5aa27078d) for "Heart and Soul," which you can find [here](http://jeanies_home_studio.tripod.com/id14.html).
> 
> 13\. I definitely suggest having the mix going while you read this, and to listen to the pieces while you read the sections. In order, the songs featured in the story are: Frank Loesser & Hoagy Carmichael - Heart and Soul; Ludwig van Beethoven - Piano Sonata No. 21 in C major, Op. 53 Waldstein; Frederick Chopin - Prelude (Op. 28 in E Minor); Scott Joplin - The Entertainer; George Gershwin - Rhapsody in Blue; Claude Debussy - Clair de Lune (from Suite Bergamesque); Dizzy Gillespie - Manteca; Robert Schumann - Traumerei; Billy Joel - Piano Man; Thelonious Monk - Just a Gigolo; Jack Lawrence - If I Didn't Care
> 
> The [soundtrack](http://kasuchi.livejournal.com/250816.html) includes all of these tracks as well as others that inspired or characterize the fic. It _just_ fits on a single CD. Enjoy!
> 
> 14\. Last but not least, a very special thank you to my beta reader, **bredalot**. Words cannot accurately share my gratitude with you, but your tireless and extensive work on this fic made this final product possible. There would be no "Portamento" if not for you. 
> 
> 14b. I'd also like to thank **tenebris** for supporting me and letting me bounce story ideas off of her, ramble at her, whinge at her, and really just anything that had to do with the overall story aspect of this fic. Without you, I would never have finished. I love you, Ten!


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